
ciassIPJ/ 4'aai 

Book ^ ~ - : - 

GcpightN°_ . 

COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT; 



/ 



Pieces People Ask For 

SERIOUS, HUMOROUS, PATHETIC, PATRIOTIC, 

AND DRAMATIC SELECTIONS IN 

PROSE AND POETRY 



READINGS AND RECITATIONS 



EDITED BY 
GEORGE M. BAKER 



BOSTON 

WALTER H. BAKER & CO. 

1909 



LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
Two CeDies Received 

JAN *\6 1909 

r, Cowri*nt Entry 
CLASS Cw XXc, Ho, 
COPY 3. 



. 1> 



«* V ' 






Pieces People Ask For 



Copyright, 1885, by George M. Baker 

(Reading Club, No. 16.) 

Copyright, 1886, by George M. Baker 

(Reading Club, No. 17.) 

Copyright, 1908, by Walter H. Baker & Co. 




\ 



Contents 
PART I 

"Bay Billy" Frank H. Gassazvay 98 

Because Boston Transcript 33 

The Book Canvasser 78 

Casabianca (Colored) 43 

A Centre-board Yacht-race George A. StockwelL 67 

The Christening E. T. Corbett 37 

*\ The Coming Wave Oliver Optic 82 

"^Counting Eggs Texas Si/tings 64 

Cut, Cut Behind Charles Follen Adams 45 

The Deacon's Ride Mary C. Huntington 59 

The Death of D'Assas Mary E. Vandyne 24 

Decoration Day Mary Bassett Hussey 54 

The Driver of Ninety-three Sarah K.Bolton 8 

The Engineer's Story Eugene J. Hall. 81 

The Fall Thomas Hood 66 

Filling His Place Maria L. Eve 40 

The Flag James Jeffrey Roche 32 

The Heritage James Russell Lowell. 42 

Hiring Help Mrs. S. E. Dawes 102 

The House in the Meadow Louise Chandler Moulton... 15 

How the Ransom was Paid W. R.Rose 10 

Jem's Last Ride Mary A. P. Stansbury 88 

The Labor Question Wendell Phillips 29 

The Light from Over the 

Range 5 

A Little Peach 17 

A Lost Child Afina F. Bumham 86 

Love and Philosophy Geo. Runde Jackson 30 

3 



4 CONTENTS 

Malaria 74 

Mary's Lamb on a New 

Principle 44 

The Man with the Musket H. S. Taylor 27 

Metamora to the Council 9 

Missing 53 

The Mississippi Miracle ... Irwin Russell. 70 

Mr. Pickwick's Romantic 
Adventure with a 
Middle-aged Lady in 

Yellow Curl-Papers... Dickens, 18 

Over the Crossin' Springfield Republican 92 

Puzzled j6 

The Rajah's Clock Theron Brown 57 

Re-enlisted Lucy Larcom 11 

Scene from "Ion" Sir Thomas Noon T a If our d 46 

She Stood on the Stair Puck 13 

The Silver Bell Mrs. Julia D. Pratt 63 

Somehow or Other 94 

The Story of Sir Arnulph.. Gerald Massey 85 

Taters W. O. Eaton 96 

Together on the Stairs Andrew G. Tubbs. 35 

A Tough Customer William L. Keese 28 

"An Unknown Man, Re- 
spectably Dressed " . Helen Jackson 97 

^The Village Choir Audreys Journal. 39 

Wendell Phillips John Boyle O'Reilly 72 

When Greek met Greek 56 

When McGue puts the 

Baby to Sleep • 87 



PART II 

After " Taps " Horace B. Sargent 78 

At Arlington James R. Randall. 15 



CONTENTS 5 

At the Rising of the Moon Leo Casey 12 

Aunt Parson's Story Presbyterian Journal. 48 

Aunt Sophronia Tabor at 

the Opera 36 

Biddy's Philosophy R. H. Stoddard 102 

The Bravest Boy in Town Emma H. Nason, in Wide 

Awake 23 

N Brer Rabbit and the Butter Harris 26 

Cicely and the Bears Lilliput Levee 64 

The " Course of Love " 

Too "Smooth" 

The Drummer's Betrothed M. Cecile Brown, , 



97 



Victor Hugo 5 

The Dutchman's Serenade 57 

Dyin' Vords of Jsaac Anonymous 99 

A Fight with a Trout Charles D. Warner 40 

Forcible Entry J. M. Bailey 45 

Grant's Strategy Judge Veazey 85 

He Never Told a Lie 82 

A Howl in Rome Bill Nye 67 

Indian Names L. H. Sigoumey 80 

Jamie Douglas 70 

John Leland's Examination 8 

A Laughing Philosopher 17 

A Leak in the Dike Phcebe Cary 93 

Lessons in Cookery Detroit Free Press 107 

A Lesson to Lovers 83 

A " Love " Game T. Malcolm Watson 86 

The Loves of a Life Mazzini • 29 

" Magdalena " Puck 75 

The Menagerie J. Honeywell. 100 

Nebulous Philosophy J. Edgar Jones 14 

Never Too Late Earnest McGaffey 39 

No ! Hood. 100 

The Old Canteen 34 

An Old Man's Prayer...... George M. Baker 88 

On the Shores of Tennessee E. L. Beers, 103 



e 



CONTENTS 



An Order for a Picture.... 

An Original Idea 

Over the Left 

Paddy^s Dream..., 

Pat's Reason , 

The Prisoner. "... 

Raking the Meadow-Lot.. 

The Saddest Sight 

Scene from " Ingomar ".. 

The Seminole's Reply 

The September Gale 

The Soldier's Dream 

The Song of the Drum 

Story of a Bedstead 

Wendell Phillips 



Alice Cary 42 

George M.Baker 110 

W. C. Dornin 56 

Anonymous 106 

109 

31 

Ruth Revere jj 

13 

Maria Love 11, from the 

German 59 

56 

O. W. Holmes...... 11 

C. G. Fall. 53 

/. E. Diekeng.a.. 20 

San Francisco Wasp 72 

Henry W. Beecher 46 



Part I 



The Reading-Club. 



THE LIGHT FROM OVER THE RANGE. 

" D'ye see it, pard ? " 

"See what, Rough?" 

" The light from over the Range." 

"Not a bit, Rough. It's not daybreak yet. Yer sick, an' 
yer head bothers ye." 

" Pard, yer off. I've been sick, but I'm well again. It's 
not dark like it was. The light's a-comin' — comin' like 
the boyhood days that crep' inter the winders of the old 
home." 

" Ye've been dreamin', Rough. The fever hain't all outen 
yer head yet." 

" Dreamin' V 'Twa'n't all dreams. It's the light comin', 
pard. I see 'em all plain. Thar's the ole man lookin' white 
an' awful, just as he looked the mornin' he drove me from 
home; and that woman behind him, stretchin' out her arms 
arter me, is the best mother in the world. Don't you see 
'em, pan IV 

"Yer flighty, Rough. It's all dark, 'cepting a pine-knot 
flickerin' in the ashes." 

" Xo — the light's a-comin' brighter and brighter. Look ! 
It's beamin' over the Range bright and gentle, like the smile 
that used to be over me when my head lay in my mother's 
lap, long ago." 

" Hyar's a little brandy, Rough. Thar ; I seen it though 
my eyes are dim — somehow — hyar, Rough." 

" Xever, pard. That stuff spiled the best years of my 
life — it sha'n't spile my dreams of 'em. Oh, sich dreams, 

5 



6 THE READING-CLUB. 

pard! They take me to the old home again. I see the 
white house 'mong the trees. I smell the breath of the 
apple - blossoms, and hear the birds singin' and the bees 
hummin', and the old plough-songs echoin' over the leetle 
valley. I see the river windin' through the willers an' syca- 
mores, an' the dear ole hills all around, p'intin' up to 
heaven like the spires of big meetin' - houses. Thar's the 
ole rock we called the tea-table. I climb up on it, an' play 
a happy boy agin. Oh, if I'd only staid thar, pard! " 

"Don't, Rough; ye thaw me all out, talkin' that. It 
makes me womanish." 

" That's it, pard : we've kep' our hearts froze so long, we 
want it alius winter. But the summer comes back with all 
the light from over the Range. How bright it is, pard ! 
Look ! How it floods the cabin till the knots an' cobwebs 
are plainer than day." 

" Suthin's wrong, Rough. It's all dark, 'cept only that 
pine-knot in the chimbly." 

"No, it's all right, pard. The light's come over the Range. 
I kin see better'n I ever could. Kin see the moister in yer 
eyes, pard, an' see the crooked path I've come, runnin' clean 
back to my mother's knee. I wasn't alius called Rough. 
Somebody used to kiss me, an' call me her boy : nobody'll 
ever know I've kep' it till the end." 

" 1 hev wanted to ax ye, mate, why ye never had any name 
but jist Rough ? " 

"Pard — it's gettin' dark — my name? I've never heard 
it since I left home. I buried it thar in the little church- 
yard, whar mother's waitin' for the boy that never come 
back. I can't tell it, pard. In my kit you'll find a pack- 
age done up. Thar's two picters in it of two faces that's 
been hoverin' over me since I took down. You'll find my 
name thar, pard — thar with hers — an' mother's." 

" Hers ? Will I ever see her, Rough ? " 

"Xot till you see her by the light that comes over the 
Range to us all. Pard, it's gettin' dark — dark and close — 
darker than it ever seemed to me afore " — 

" Rough, what's the matter ? Speak to me, mate. Can't 
I do nuthin' fer ye? " 

" Yes — pard. Can't ye — say — suthin' ? " 

" What d'ye mean, Rough ? I'll say any thing to please 
ye." 

" Say — a — pra'r, pard.'* 



TEE READING-CLUB. 7 

" A pra'r ! Rough, d'ye mean it ? " 

"Yes, a pra'r, pard. It's the — last thing Rough'H ever 
— ax of ye." 

"It's hard to do, Rough. I don't know a pra'r." 

"Think back, pard. Didn't yer mother — teach ye — 
suthin' ? One that begins — ' Our Father ' — an' then — 
somehow — says — ' forgive us ' — " 

"Don't, Rough, ye break me all up." 

" The light's a-fadin' — on the golden hills — an' the night 
is comin' — out of the canyuns — pard. Be quick — ye'll 
try, pard. Say suthin' — fer Rough " — 

"I — Rough — Our Father, forgive us. Don't be hard on 
Rough. We're a tough lot. We've forgot ye, but we 
hain't all bad. 'Cause we hain't forgot the old home. For- 
give us — be easy on Rough. Thy will be done " — 

" It's comin' agin — pard. The light's — comin' — over 
the Range " — 

"Have mercy on — us, an' — an' — an' — settle with us 
'cordin' to — to the surroundin's of our lives. Thy — Thy 
kingdom come " — 

" Go on, pard. It's comin'." 

" Now — I lay me down to sleep." 

" That's — good — mother said that." 

" Hallowed be Thy name — pray — the Lord his soul to 
keep." 

" That's good — pard. It's all glory — comin' over — the 
Range — mother's face — her — face " — 

" Thine is the glory, we ask — for Jesus' sake — Amen." 

" Pard " — 

" What, Rough ? I'm all unstrung. I " — 

"Fare" — 

" Rough ! Yer worse ! What, dead ? " 

Yes, the wanderings were over. Ended with a prayer, 
rough and sincere, like the heart that had ceased to throb ; 
a prayer and a few real tears, even in that lone cabin in the 
canon ; truer than many a death scene knows, although a 
nation does honor to the dying; a prayer that pleased Him 
better than many a prayer of the schools and creeds. A rough 
but gentle hand closed the eyes. The first rays of the morn- 
ing sun broke through a crevice in the little cabin, and 
hung like his mother's sniile over the couch of the sleeping 
boy. Only one mourner watched with Rough as he waited 
for the new name which will be given to us all, when that 
light comes to the world from over the Range. 



THE READING-CLUB. 



THE DRIVER OF NINETY-THREE. 

Street-car driver, " Ninety-three ! " 

Very weary and worn was he, 
As he dragged himself to his little home ; 

Long, long hours from year to year, 

Never a day for rest, no cheer, 
In the woods or meadows in joy to roam. 

All day through in tiresome round, 

"Wages scanty, and prospects bound 
In a treadmill life from sun to sun, 

Facing the winter's cold and sleet, 

Facing the summer's burning heat, 
W 7 ith little to hope and little won. 

The clothing was poor of " Ninety-three," 

And poor as well for the family ; 
But the wife was patient with gentle grace. 

' ' I've watched all day by the baby's bed ; 

I think he is going, John," she said, 
"With an anxious look on her pallid face. 

He gazed with pride on his baby boy. 

" He is handsome, wife! " and a look of joy 
Just for a moment dried the tears. 

" How does he look in the glad daylight ? 

I have never seen him, except at night ; " 
And he sighed as he thought of the weary years. 

Labor the blessing of life should be, 

But it seemed like a curse to " Ninety-three," 
For twice too long were the toiling hours ; 

Never the time to improve the mind, 

Or joy in his little ones to find : 
Grasping and thoughtless are human powers. 

All night long did the driver stay 

By the beautiful child, then stole away, 

Hoping, still hoping that God would save ; 
But when the sun in the heavens rose high, 
The time had come for the baby to die, 

And the mother had only an open grave. 



TEE READING-CLUE. 9 

" I must take a day," said " Ninety-three " 

To the wealthy railroad company ; 
" I shall see the face of my child," he said. 

Oh, bitter the thought to wait till death 

Has whitened the cheek and stopped the breath, 
Before we can see our precious dead ! 

With many a tear and half-moaned prayer, 

With apple- blossoms among his hair, 
They buried the child of their fondest love ; 

And the man went back to the treadmill life 

With a kindlier thought for his stricken wife. 
Ah, well, there's a reckoning day above ! 

Sarah K. Bolton. 



METAMORA TO THE COUNCIL. 

You sent for me, and I've come : if you have nothing to 
say, I go back again. How is it, brothers? The doubt 
seems on all your faces, and your young warriors grasp their 
fire-weapons, as if they waited the onset of the foe. You 
were like a small thing upon the great waters ; you had no 
earth to rest upon ; you left the smoke of your father's wig- 
wam far in the distance, when the lord of the soil took you 
as little children to his home ; our hearths were warm, and 
the Indian was the white man's friend. Your great Book 
tells you to give good gifts. The Indian needs no book : the 
Great Spirit has written with his finger on his heart. 
Wisconego here ? let me see his eye ! Art thou not he whom 
I snatched from the war-club of the Mohegan, when the lips 
of the foe thirsted for thy blood, and their warriors had sung 
thy death-song? Say unto these people that they have 
bought thy tongue, and that thy coward heart has uttered a 
lie. Slave of the whites, go! (stabs him) follow Sassawan! 
White man, beware ! the wrath of the wronged Indian shall 
fall on you like a mighty cataract that dashes the uprooted 
oak down its mighty chasm; the dread war-cry shall start 
you from dreams at night, and the red hatchet gleam in the 
blaze of your burning dwellings. Tremble, from the east 
to the west, from the north to the south, till the lands you 
have stolen groan beneath your feet! (Throws hatchet on 
stage.) Thus do I smite your nation, and defy your power 1 



10 THE READING-CLUB. 

HOW THE RANSOM WAS PAID. 
1598. 

On the helpless Flemish village 

Cruel Alva swooped and fell ; 
And the peace of trade and tillage 

Turned to martial clank and yell. 
In the town-house, tall and handsome, 

Stood the great duke looking down 
On the burghers proffering ransom 

For the safety of the town. 



O'er his brow gray locks were twining, 

For his casque was laid aside, 
And his good sword carved and shining 

From the sword-belt was untied. 
Prince he seemed of born commanders; 

Pride and power each gesture told; 
As he cried, " Ye men of Flanders, 

Bring me twenty casks of gold!" 



Then upon them fell a sadness, 

And a shadow like a pall, 
While they murmured, " 'Tis rank madness 

Such a sum from us to call ! " 
And the spokesman of the village 

Murmured feebly, " Sure you jest." 
Answered Alva, " Gold or pillage, 

Choose whiche'er may suit you best! " 



Faint and stunned they turned despairing, 

When arose a laugh of joy, 
And before their startled staring 

In there pranced a little boy ; 
On his curls the duke's helm rested, 

As with noisy glee he roared, 
And his good steed mailed and crested 

Was great Alva's mighty sword 1 



THE READING-CLUB. 11 

Round about the room he gambolled, 

Peeping through the helmet bars ; 
Now he leaped, and now he ambled, 

Like a Cupid mocking Mars. 
Then he stayed his merry prancing, 

And of Alva's knees caught hold, 
Where a ray of sunlight glancing 

Turned his sunny curls to gold. 

Swift the mother, sorely frightened, 

Strove to take the cherub wild ; 
But the duke's stern features lightened 

As he kept her from the child ; 
And he drank the pretty prattle — 

For the baby knew no fear — 
Till his eye, so fierce in battle, 

Softened with a pearly tear. 

For a babe arose before him 

In fair Spain, ere war's alarms, — 
Thus his father's sword upbore him. 

Alva caught the boy in arms, 
And, the pretty forehead baring, 

Cried, " A kiss ! " The child obeyed ; 
Then unto those men despairing 

Alva said, "Your ransom's paid." 

W. R. Rose, in Texas Sif tings. 



RE-ENLISTED. 



Oh did you see him in the street, dressed up in army blue, 
When drums and trumpets into town their storm of music 

threw, — 
A louder tune than all the winds could muster in the air, — 
The Rebel winds, that tried so hard our flag in strips to tear? 

You didn't mind him ? Oh, you looked beyond him, then, 

perhaps. 
To see the mounted officers rigged out with trooper caps, 
And shiny clothes, and sashes, and epaulets and all. 
Jt wasn't for such things as these he heard his country call. 



12 THE READING-CLUB. 

She asked for men ; and up he spoke, my handsome, hearty- 
Sam, — 
" I'll die for the dear old Union, if she'll take me as I am." 
And if a better man than he there's mother that can show, 
From Maine to Minnesota, then let the nation know. 



You would not pick him from the rest by eagles or by stars, 

By straps upon his coat-sleeve, or gold or silver bars, 

Nor a corporal's strip of worsted ; but there's something in 

his face, 
And something in his even step, a-marching in his place, — 

That couldn't be improved by all the badges in the land : 
A patriot, and a good, strong man ; are generals much more 

grand ? 
We rest our pride on that big heart, wrapt up in army blue, 
The girl he loves, Mehitabel, and I, who love him too. 

He's never shirked a battle yet, though frightful risks he's 

run, 
Since treason flooded Baltimore, the spring of sixty-one ; 
Through blood and storm he's held out firm, nor fretted once, 

my Sam, 
At swamps of Chickahominy, or fields of Antietam. 

Though many a time he's told us, when he saw them lying 
dead, 

The boys that came from Newbury port, and Lynn, and 
Marblehead, 

Stretched out upon the trampled turf, and wept on by the 
sky, 

It seemed to him the Commonwealth had drained her life- 
blood dry. 

" But then," he said, "the more's the need the country has 

of me : 
To live and fight the war all through, what glory it will be ! 
The Rebel balls don't hit me ; and, mother, if they should, 
You'll know I've fallen in my place, where I have always 

stood." 



THE READING-CLUB. 13 

He's taken out his furlough, and short enough it seemed : 
I often tell Mehitabel he'll think he only dreamed 
Of walking with her nights so bright you couldn't see a star, 
And hearing the swift tide come in across the harbor bar. 

The stars that shine above the stripes, they light him 

southward now ; 
The tide of war has swept him back ; he's made a solemn 

vow 
To build himself no home-nest till his country's work is 

done : 
God bless the vow, and speed the work, my patriot, my son ! 

And yet it is a pretty place where his new house might be, — 
An orchard-road that leads your eye straight out upon the 

sea. 
The boy not work his father's farm ? it seems almost a shame ; 
But any selfish plan for him he'd never let me name. 

He's re-enlisted for the war, for victory or for death ; 

A soldier's grave, perhaps ! the thought has half-way stopped 

my breath, 
And driven a cloud across the sun. My boy, it will not be ! 
The war will soon be over, home again you'll come to me. 

He's re-enlisted ; and I smiled to see him going too ! 
There's nothing that becomes him half so well as army blue. 
Only a private in the ranks ! but sure I am, indeed, 
If all the privates were like him, they'd scarcely captains 
need. 

And I and Massachusetts share the honor of his birth, — 
The grand old State ! to me the best in all the peopled earth ! 
I cannot hold a musket, but I have a son who can ; 
And I'm proud, for Freedom's sake, to be the mother of a 
man. Lucy Larcom. 



SHE STOOD ON THE STAIR. 

She stood at the turn of the stair, 

With the rose-tinted light on her face, 

And the gold of her hair gleaming out 
From a mystical billow of lace. 



14 THE READING-CLUB. 

And I waited and watched her apart, 

And a mist seemed to compass my sight ; 

For last year we were nearer than friends, 
And to me she was nothing to-night. 

And the jasmine she wore at her throat 
Was heavy with fragrance, and cast 

The sorrowful present away, 

And carried me back to the past. 

Yes, her face is as proud and as sweet, 

And the flowers are the same as of old. 

Is her voice just as gentle and low? 
Is her heart just as cruel and cold? 

Does she dream of one summer ago, 

As she stands on the rose-tinted stair? 

Does she think of her Newport romance, 

While she buttons her long mosquetaire? 

And some one is singing a song, 

And high o'er the music it rings, 

And she listens and leans from the stair, 

For these are the words that it sings : — 

" Oh, love for a month or a week, 
Oh, love for a year or a day ; 
But, oh for the love that will live — 
That will linger forever and aye ! " 

There's a stillness — the music has stopped, 
And she turns with an indolent grace : 

Am I waking, or still do I dream, 
Or is there a tear on her face? 

Then I step from the shadow apart, 

Till I stand by her side on the stair : 

One step to the flowers and light 

From the darkness and gloom of despair. 

And I take both her hands in my own, 
And I look in her eyes once again, — 

And I shiver and tremble and shake 

When I think what a fool I have been. 



TEE READING-CLUB. 15 

And I stamp and I claw at the air, 

And rave at myself for a spell ; 
For it isn't the girl, after all, 

That I met at the Newport hotel. 

Puck. 



THE HOUSE IN THE MEADOW. 

It stands in a sunny meadow, 

The house so mossy and brown, 
With its cumbrous old stone chimneys, 

And the gray roof sloping down. 

The trees fold their green arms round it, — 

The trees a century old ; 
And the winds go chanting through them, 

And the sunbeams drop their gold. 

The cowslips spring in the marshes, 

The roses bloom on the hill, 
And beside the brook in the pasture 

The herds go feeding at will. 

Within, in the wide old kitchen 

The old folks sit in the sun 
That creeps through the sheltering woodbine 

Till the day is almost done. 

Their children have gone and left them ; 

They sit in the sun alone, 
And the old wife's ears are failing 

As she harks to the well-known tone 

That won her heart in her girlhood, 
That has soothed her in many a care, 

And praises her now for the brightness 
Her old face used to wear. 

She thinks again of her bridal, — 
How, dressed in her robe of white, 

She stood by her gay young lover 
In the morning's rosy light. 



16 THE READING-CLUB. 

Oh, the morning is rosy as ever, 
But the rose from her cheek is fled ; 

And the sunshine still is golden, 
But it falls on a silvered head. 

And the girlhood dreams, once vanished, 
Come back in her winter-time, 

Till her feeble pulses tremble 
With the thrill of springtime's prime. 

And, looking forth from the window, 
She thinks how the trees have grown 

Since, clad in her bridal whiteness, 
She crossed the old door-stone. 

Though dimmed her eye's bright azure, 
And dimmed her hair's young gold, 

The love in her girlhood plighted 
Has never grown dim or old. 

They sat in peace in the sunshine 
Till the day was almost done. 

And then, at its close, an angel 
Stole over the threshold stone. 

He folded their hands together, 

He touched their eyelids with balm, 

And their last breath floated outward, 
Like the close of a solemn psalm. 

Like a bridal pair they traversed 

The unseen, mystical road 
That leads to the Beautiful City 

Whose Builder and Maker is God. 

Perhaps in that miracle country 
They will give her lost youth back, 

And the flowers of the vanished springtime 
Will bloom in the spirit's track. 

One draught from the living waters 
Shall call back his manhood's prime; 

And eternal years shall measure 
The love that outlasted time. 



THE READING-CLUB. 17 

But the shapes that they left behind them, 

The wrinkles and silver hair, — 
Made holy to us by the kisses 

The angel had printed there, — 

We will hide away 'neath the willows, 

When the day is low in the west, 
Where the sunbeams cannot find them, 

Nor the winds disturb their rest. 

And we'll suffer no telltale tombstone, 

With its age and date to rise 
O'er the two who are old no longer, 

In the Father's house in the skies. 

Louise Chandler Moulton. 



A LITTLE PEACE 

A little peach in an orchard grew, — 
A little peach of emerald hue ; 
Warmed by the sun and wet by the dew, 
It grew. 

One day, passing the orchard through, 
That little peach dawned on the view 
Of Johnny Jones and his sister Sue. 
Them two. 

Up at the peach a club they threw : 
Down from the stem on which it grew 
Fell the little peach of emerald hue. 
Brand Xew! 

She took a bite, and John a chew ; 
And then the trouble began to brew, — 
Trouble the doctor couldn't subdue. 
Too true ! 

Under the turf where the daisies grew, 
They planted John and his sister Sue, 
And their little souls to the angels flew. 
Boo-hoo i 



18 THE READING-CLUB. 

But what of the peach of emerald hue, 
Warmed by the sun and wet by the dew? 
Ah, well, its mission on earth is through. 
Adieu ! 



MR. PICKWICK'S ROMANTIC ADVEN- 
TURE WITH A MIDDLE-AGED LADY 
IN YELLOW CURL-PAPERS. 

" Dear me, it's time to go to bed. It will never do, sit- 
ting here. I shall be pale to-morrow, Mr. Pickwick ! " 

At the bare notion of such a calamity, Mr. Peter Magnus 
rang the bell for the chambermaid ; and the striped bag, the 
red bag, the leather hat-box, and the brown-paper parcel, 
having been conveyed to his bedroom, he retired in company 
with a japanned candlestick to one side of the house, while 
Mr. Pickwick, and another japanned candlestick, were con- 
ducted through a multitude of tortuous windings to another. 

" This is your room, sir," said the chambermaid. 

"Very well," replied Mr. Pickwick, looking round him. 
It was a tolerably large double-bedded room, with a fire ; 
upon the whole, a more comfortable-looking apartment than 
Mr. Pickwick's short experience of the accommodations of 
the Great White Horse had led him to expect. 

"Nobody sleeps in the other bed, of course," said Mr. 
Pickwick . 

" Oh, no, sir." 

" Very good. Tell my servant to bring me up some hot 
water at half-past eight in the morning, and that I shall not 
want him any more to-night." 

"Yes, sir." And bidding Mr. Pickwick good-night, the 
chambermaid retired, and left him alone. 

Mr. Pickwick sat himself down in a chair before the fire, 
and fell into a train of rambling meditations. First he 
thought of his friends, and wondered when they would join 
him ; then his mind reverted to Mrs. Martha Bardell ; and 
from that lady it wandered, by a natural process, to the 
dingy counting-house of Dodson and Fogg. From Dodson 
and Fogg's it flew off at a tangent, to the veiy centre of 
the history of the queer client; and then it came back to the 
Great White Horse at Ipswich, with sufficient clearness to 



THE READING-CLUB. 19 

convince Mr. Pickwick that he was falling asleep ; so he 
roused himself, and began to undress, when he recollected 
he had left his watch on the table down-stairs. 

Now, this watch was a special favorite with Mr. Pickwick, 
having been carried about, beneath the shadow of his waist- 
coat, for a greater number of years than we feel called upon 
to state at present. The possibility of going to sleep un- 
less it were ticking gently beneath his pillow, or in his 
watch-pocket over his head, had never entered Mr. Pick- 
wick's brain. So as it was pretty late now, and he was 
unwilling to ring his bell at that hour of the night, he 
slipped on his coat, of which he had just divested himself, 
and, taking the japanned candlestick in his hand, walked 
quietly down-stairs. 

The more stairs Mr. Pickwick went down, the more stairs 
there seemed to be to descend ; and again and again, when 
Mr. Pickwick got into some narrow passage, and began to 
congratulate himself on having gained the ground-floor, did 
another flight of stairs appear before his astonished eyes. 
At last he reached a stone hall, which he remembered to 
have seen when he entered the house. Passage after pas- 
sage did he explore ; room after room did he peep into ; at 
length, just as he was on the point of giving up the search 
in despair, he opened the door of the identical room in which 
he had spent the evening, and beheld his missing property 
on the table. 

Mr. Pickwick seized the watch in triumph, and proceeded 
to retrace his steps to his bed-chamber. If his progress 
downwards had been attended with difficulties and uncer> 
tainty, his journey back was infinitely more perplexing. 
Rows of doors garnished with boots of every shape, make, 
and size, branched off in every possible direction. A dozen 
times did he softly turn the handle of some bedroom door 
which resembled his own, when a gruff cry from within, of 
" Who the devil's that '? " or " What do you want here V " 
caused him to steal away, on tiptoe, with a marvellous 
celerity. He was reduced to the verge of despair, when an 
open door attracted his attention. He peeped in — right at 
last ! There were the two beds, whose situation he per- 
fectly remembered, and the fire still burning. His candle, 
not a long one when he first received it, had flickered away 
in the draughts of air through which he had passed, and sunk 
into the socket just as he closed the door after him. "No 



20 THE READING-CLUB. 

matter," said Mr. Pickwick, " I can undress myself just as 
well, by the light of the fire.' 5 

The bedsteads stood, one on each side of the door; and 
on the inner side of each was a little path, terminating in a 
rush-bottomed chair, just wide enough to admit of a person's 
getting into or out of bed on that side, if he or she thought 
proper. Having carefully drawn the curtains of his bed on 
the outside, Mr. Pickwick sat down on the rush-bottomed 
chair, and leisurely divested himself of his shoes and gaiters. 
He then took off and folded up his coat, waistcoat, and neck- 
cloth, and, slowly tying on his tasselled nightcap, secured it 
firmly on his head, by tying beneath his chin the strings 
which he had always attached to that article of dress. It 
was at this moment that the absurdity of his recent bewil- 
derment struck upon his mind ; and throwing himself back 
in the rush-bottomed chair, Mr. Pickwick laughed to him- 
self so heartily, that it would have been quite delightful to 
any man of well - constituted mind to have watched the 
smiles which expanded his amiable features as they shone 
forth from beneath the nightcap. 

" It is the best idea," said Mr. Pickwick to himself, smil- 
ing till he almost cracked the nightcap strings, — "it is the 
best idea, my losing myself in this place, and wandering 
about those staircases, that I ever heard of. Droll, droll, 
very droll." Here Mr. Pickwick smiled again, a broader 
smile than before, and was about to continue the process of 
undressing, in the very best possible humor, when he was sud- 
denly stopped by a most unexpected interruption ; to wit, 
the entrance into the room of some person with a candle, 
who, after locking the door, advanced to the dressing-table, 
and set down the light upon it. 

The smile that played on Mr. Pickwick's features was 
instantaneously lost in a look of the most unbounded and 
wonder-stricken surprise. The person, whoever it was, had 
come in so suddenly and with so little noise, that Mr. Pick- 
wick had no time to call out, or oppose their entrance. Who 
could it be ? A robber ! Some evil-minded person who 
had seen him come up-stairs with a handsome watch in his 
hand, perhaps. What was he to do ? 

The only way in which Mr. Pickwick could catch a 
glimpse of his mysterious visitor, with the least danger of 
being seen himself, was by creeping on to the bed, and 
peeping out from between the curtains on the opposite side. 



THE READING-CLUB. 21 

To this manoeuvre he accordingly resorted. Keeping the 
curtains carefully closed with his hand, so that nothing 
more of him could be seen than his face and nightcap, and 
putting on his spectacles, he mustered up courage, and 
looked out. 

Mr. Pickwick almost fainted with horror and dismay. 
Standing before the dressing-glass was a middle-aged lady 
in yellow curl-papers, busily engaged in brushing what 
ladies call their "back hair." However the unconscious 
middle-aged lady came into that room, it was quite clear 
that she contemplated remaining there for the night; for 
she had brought a rushlight and shade with her, which, 
with praiseworthy precaution against fire, she had stationed 
in a basin on the floor, where it was glimmering away like 
a gigantic light-house in a particularly small piece of water. 

" Bless my soul," thought Mr. Pickwick, " what a dreadful 
thing ! " 

" Hem ! " said the lady ; and in went Mr. Pickwick's head 
with automaton-like rapidity. 

" I never met any thing so awful as this," thought poor 
Mr. Pickwick, the cold perspiration starting in drops upon 
his nightcap. "Never. This is fearful." 

It was quite impossible to resist the urgent desire to see 
what was going forward. So out went Mr. Pickwick's head 
again. The prospect was worse than before. The middle- 
aged lady had finished arranging her hair, and carefully 
enveloped it in a muslin nightcap w r ith a small plaited bor- 
der, and was gazing pensively on the fire. 

" This matter is growing alarming," reasoned Mr. Pick- 
wick with himself. " I can't allow things to go in this w T ay. 
By the self-possession of that lady, it's clear to me that I 
must have come into the wrong room. If I call out, she'll 
alarm the house ; but if I remain here, the consequence will 
be still more frightful ! " 

Mr. Pickwick, it is quite necessary to say, was one of the 
most modest and delicate-minded of mortals. The very 
idea of exhibiting his nightcap to a lady overpowered him ; 
but he had tied those confounded strings in a knot, and, do 
what he would, he couldn't get it off. The disclosure must 
be made. There was only one other way of doing it. He 
shrunk behind the curtains, and called out very loudly, — 

" Ha — hum." 

That the lady started at this unexpected sound, was evi- 



22 THE READING-CLUB. 

dent by her falling up against the rushlight shade; that 
she persuaded herself it must have been the effect of ima- 
gination, was equally clear, for when Mr. Pickwick, under the 
impression that she had fainted away, stone dead from 
fright, ventured to peep out again, she was gazing pensively 
on the fire as before. 

"Most extraordinary female this," thought Mr. Pickwick, 
popping in again. " Ha — hum." 

These last sounds, so like those in which, as legends in- 
form us, the ferocious giant Blunderbore was in the habit 
of expressing his opinion that it was time to lay the cloth, 
were too distinctly audible to be again mistaken for the 
workings of fancy. 

"Gracious Heaven! " said the middle-aged lady, "what's 
that ? " 

" It's — it's — only a gentleman, ma'am," said Mr. Pick- 
wick from behind the curtains. 

" A gentleman ! " said the lady with a terrific scream. 

" It's all over," thought Mr. Pickwick. 

" A strange man ! " shrieked the lady. Another instant, 
and the house would be alarmed. Her garments rustled as 
she rushed towards the door. 

"Ma'am" — said Mr. Pickwick, thrusting out his head, 
in the extremity of his desperation, " ma'am." 

Now, although Mr. Pickwick was not actuated by any 
definite object in putting out his head, it was instantane- 
ously productive of a good effect. The lady, as we have 
already stated, was near the door. She must pass it to 
reach the staircase ; and she would most undoubtedly have 
done so, by this time, had not the sudden apparition of Mr. 
Pickwick's nightcap driven her back, into the remotest cor- 
ner of the apartment, where she stood staring wildly at Mr. 
Pickwick, while Mr. Pickwick in his turn stared wildly at 
her. 

" Wretch," said the lady, covering her eyes with her 
hands, " what do you want here ? " 

" Nothing, ma'am, — nothing whatever, ma'am," said Mr. 
Pickwick earnestly. 

" Nothing ! " said the lady looking up. 

" Nothing, ma'am, upon my honor," said Mr. Pickwick, 
nodding his head so energetically, that the tassel of his 
nightcap danced again. " I am almost ready to sink, ma'am, 
beneath the confusion of addressing a lady in my nightcap 



THE READING-CLUB. 23 

(here the lady hastily snatched off hers), but I can't get it 
off, ma'am (here Mr. Pickwick gave it a tremendous tug in 
proof of the statement). It is evident to me, ma'am, now, 
that I have mistaken this bedroom for my own. I had 
not been here five minutes, ma'am, when you suddenly en- 
tered it." 

"If this improbable story be really true, sir," said the 
lady, sobbing violently, "you will leave it instantly." 

" I will, ma'am, with the greatest pleasure," replied Mr. 
Pickwick. 

" Instantly, sir," said the lady. 

" Certainly, ma'am," interposed Mr. Pickwick, very 
quickly. " Certainly, ma'am. I — I — am very sorry, 
ma'am," said Mr. Pickwick, making his appearance at the 
bottom of the bed, "to have been the innocent occasion of 
this alarm and emotion; deeply sorry, ma'am." 

The lady pointed to the door. One excellent quality of 
Mr. Pickwick's character was beautifully displayed at this 
moment, under the most trying circumstances. Although 
he had hastily put on his hat over his nightcap, after the 
manner of the old patrol ; although he carried his shoes and 
gaiters in his hand, and his coat and waistcoat over his arm, 
nothing could subdue his native politeness. 

"I am exceedingly sorry, ma'am," said Mr. Pickwick, 
bowing very low. 

" If you are, sir, you will at once leave the room," said 
the lady. 

" Immediately, ma'am ; this instant, ma'am," said Mr. 
Pickwick, opening the door, and dropping both his shoes 
with a loud crash in so doing. 

" I trust, ma'am," resumed Mr. Pickwick, gathering up 
his shoes, and turning round to bow again, "I trust, ma'am, 
that my unblemished character, and the devoted respect I 
entertain for your sex, will plead as some slight excuse for 
this " — But before Mr. Pickwick could conclude the sen- 
tence, the lady had thrust him into the passage, and locked 
and bolted the door behind him. Dickens. 



24 THE READING-CLUB, 



THE DEATH OF D'ASSAS. 

[In the autumn of 1760, Louis XV. sent an army into Germany. They 
took up a strong position at Klostercamp, intending to advance on Rhein- 
berg. The young Chevalier D'Assas was sent out by Auvergne to reconnoitre. 
He met a party advancing to surprise the French camp. Their bayonets 
pricked his breast, and the leader whispered, " Make the least noise, and you 
are a dead man." D'Assas paused a moment, then cried out as loud as he 
could, " Here, Auvergne ! here are the enemy ! " He was immediately cut 
down, but his death had saved the French army. — History of France.] 

There's revelry at Louis' court. With joust and tourna- 
ment, 

With feasting and with laughter, the merry days are spent ; 

And midst- them all, those gallant knights, of Louis' court 
the boast, 

Who can compare with D'Assas among the brilliant host? 

The flush of youth is on his cheek ; the fire that lights his 

Tells of the noble heart within, the spirit pure and high. 
No braver knight holds charger's reign, or wields the glitter- 
ing lance. 
Than proud and lordly D'Assas, bold chevalier of France. 



The sound of war strikes on the air from far beyond the 
Rhine, 

Its clarions ring across the fields, rich with the purple vine. 

France calls her best and bravest : " Up, men, and take the 
sword ! 

Of German vales and hillsides, Louis would fain be lord ; 

Go forth, and for your sovereign win honor and renown ; 

Plant the white flag of Ivry on valley and on town. 

The green soil of the Fatherland shall see your arms ad- 
vance, 

The dull and stolid Teuton shall bend the knee to France." 



On Klostercamp the morning sun is glancing brightly down. 
Auvergne has ranged his forces within the ancient town. 
From thence on Kheinberg shall they move : that citadel so 

grim 
Shall yield her towers to Auvergne, shall ope her gates to 

him. 



THE READING-CLUB. 25 

His warriors stand about him, a bold and gallant band, 
No general e'er had truer men to follow his command. 
He seeks the best and bravest ; on D'Assas falls his glance, — 
On brave and lordly D'Assas, bold chevalier of France. 



"Advance, my lord," cried Auvergne; D'Assas is at his 

side. 
" Of all the knights who form my train, who 'neath my ban- 
ner ride, 
None hold the place of trust the king our sovereign gives 

to thee, — 
Wilt thou accept a fearful charge that death or fame shall 

be? 
" Wilt thou, O D'Assas ! ride to-night close to the foemen's 

line, 
And see what strength he may oppose to these proud hosts 

of mine ? " 
Then D'Assas bows his stately head. " Thy will shall soon 

be done. 
Back will I come with tidings full e'er dawns the morning 

sun." 

'Tis midnight. D'Assas rideth forth upon his well-tried 

steed. 
Auvergne hath made a worthy choice for this adventurous 

deed. 
But stop ! what means this silent host ? How stealthily they 

come ! 
No martial music cleaves the air, no sound of beaten drum. 
Like spectre forms they seem to glide before his wondering 

eyes ; 
Well hath he done, the wary foe, to plan this wild surprise. 
Back D'Assas turns; but ah! too late, — a lance is laid in 

rest: 
The knight can feel its glittering point against his corselet 

prest. 

" A Frenchman ! Hist ! " A heavy hand has seized his 

bridle-rein. 
" Hold close thy lips, my gallant spy ; one word, and thou 

art slain. 



26 THE READING-CLUB. 

What brought thee here ? Dost thou not know this is the 
Fatherland ? 

How dar'st thou stain our righteous earth with thy foul 
Popish band ? 

Wouldst guard thy life, then utter not one sound above thy 
breath ; 

A whisper, and thy dainty limbs shall make a meal for 
Death. 

Within thy heart these blades shall find the black blood of 
thy race, 

And none shall ever know or dream of thy last resting- 
place." 



Calm as a statue D'Assas stands. His heart he lifts on high. 
" The God of battles ! help me now, and teach me how to die. 
A weeping maid will mourn my fate, a sovereign holds me 

dear; 
Be to them ever more than I who perish sadly here." 
No word has passed his pallid lips, no sound his voice has 

made. 
'Twas but the utterance of his heart, this prayer the soldier 

prayed. 
But then ? ah, then ! No voice on earth e'er rang more 

loud and clear : 
" Auvergne ! " he cried, " Auvergne, Auvergne ! Behold ! the 

foe is here ! " 



The forest echoes with the shout. Appalled his captors 
stand. 

The courage of that dauntless heart has stayed each mur- 
derous hand. 

A moment's pause, — then who can tell how quick their 
bayonets' thrust 

Reached D'Assas' heart, and laid him there, a helpless heap 
of dust ! 

The bravest chevalier of France, the pride of Louis' train, — 

His blood bedews that alien earth, a flood of crimson rain. 

But Auvergne — Auvergne hears the cry; his troops come 
dashing on : 

Ere D'Assas' spirit leaves its clay, the victory has been won. 
Mary E. Vandyne, in Good Cheer. 



TEE READING-CLUB. 27 



THE MAN WITH THE MUSKET. 

Soldiers, pass on from this rage of renown, 

This ant-hill commotion and strife, 
Pass by where the marbles and bronzes look down 

With their fast-frozen gestures of life, 
On, out to the nameless who lie 'neath the gloom 

Of the pitying cypress and pine ; 
Your man is the man of the sword and the plume, 

But the man of the musket is mine. 

I knew him ! by all that is noble, I knew 

This commonplace hero I name ! 
I've camped with him, marched with him, fought with him 
too, 

In the swirl of the fierce battle-flame ! 
Laughed with him, cried with him, taken a part 

Of his canteen and blanket, and known 
That the throb of this chivalrous prairie boy's heart, 

Was an answering stroke of my own. 

I knew him, I tell you ! And, also, I knew 

When he fell on the battle-swept ridge, 
That the poor battered body that lay there in blue 

Was only a plank in the bridge 
Over which some should pass to fame 

That shall shine while the high stars shall shine. 
Your hero is known by an echoing name, 

But the man of the musket is mine. 

I knew him ! All through him the good and the bad 

Ran together and equally free ; 
But I judge as I trust Christ will judge the brave lad, 

For death made him noble to me. 
In the cyclone of war, in the battle's eclipse, 

Life shook out its lingering sands, 
And he died with the names that he loved on his lips, 

His musket still grasped in his hands. 
Up close to the flag my soldier went down, 

In the salient front of the line : 
You may take for your hero the men of renown, 

But the man of the musket is mine. 

H. S. Taylor, in The Century, 



28 THE READING-CLUB. 



A TOUGH CUSTOMER. 

Let me tell you a tale that was once told to me ; 

And although it was told me in prose at the time, 
I will give it a metrical dressing, and see 

If the story will lose any reason by rhyme. 

There came to the store in a village, one day, 
A long and lank stranger in homespun arrayed ; 

And " Good-mornin'," said he in a diffident way, 
" I've jes' come up to town for a bit of a trade." 

The proprietor nodded, and cheerily spoke, — 

" Well, what can I do for you, neighbor, and how ? " 

" Wal, one of wife's knittin'-needles ez broke, 

An' she wants me to git one — how much be they, now? " 

" They're two cents apiece." — " Wal, say, mister, look here: 

I've got a fresh egg, an' my wife sez to me, 
' Swap the egg for the needle ; ' it seems a bit queer. 

But the thing's about even — it's a big un, yer see." 

Said the storekeeper presently, "Well, I don't mind." 
He laid down the needle, and put the egg by — 

When the countryman blurted out, " Ain't yer inclined 
To treat a new customer ? Fact is, I'm dry." 

Though staggered a little, it must be confessed, 
By the " customer " coming it rather too free, 

Yet, smilingly granting the modest request, 

The dealer responded, " Well, what shall it be ? " 

" Wal, a drop of Madairy I reckon 'ul pass ; 

I've been used ter thet, see, ever since I was born." 
The storekeeper handed a bottle and glass, 

And his customer poured out a generous horn. 

For a moment he eyed the gratuitous dram 

With the air of a man who must something resign ; 

Then blandly remarked, " Do you know that I am 
Very partial to mixing an egg in my wine? " 



THE READING-CLUB. 29 

" Oh, well, let us finish this matter, I beg : 
You're very particular, though, I must say," 

The storekeeper muttered, and handed an egg — 
The identical one he had taken in pay. 

On the rim of the tumbler the man broke the shell — 
" It's cert'inly handsome, the way yer treat folk : " 

He opened it deftly, and plumply ft fell 

With a splash, and no wonder — it held double yolk ! 

The customer saw, and a long breath he drew : 
" Look, mister, that egg has two yolks, I declare ! 

Instead of one needle, I've paid yer for two, 

So hand me another, an' then we'll be square ! " 

William L. Keese, in Our Continent. 



THE LABOR QUESTION. 

Let me tell you why I am interested in the labor question. 
Not simply because of the long hours of labor; not simply 
because of a specific oppression of a class. I sympathize 
with the sufferers there : I am ready to fight on their side. 
But I look out upon Christendom, with its three hundred 
millions of people; and I see, that, out of this number of 
people, one hundred millions never had enough to eat. 
Physiologists tell us that this body of ours, unless it is prop- 
erly fed, properly developed, fed with rich blood and care- 
fully nourished, does no justice to the brain. You cannot 
make a bright or a good man in a starved body; and so this 
one-third of the inhabitants of Christendom, who have never 
had food enough, can never be what they should be. Now, 
I say that the social civilization which condemns every third 
man in it to be below the average in the nourishment God 
prepared for him, did not come from above : it came from 
below; and, the sooner it goes down, the better. Come on 
this side of the ocean. You will find forty millions of peo- ' 
pie, and I suppose they are in the highest state of civiliza- 
tion ; and yet it is not too much to say, that, out of that forty 
millions, ten millions at least, who get up in the morning 
and go to bed at night, spend all the day in the mere effort 
to get bread enough to live. They have not elasticity 
enough, mind or body, left, to do any thing in the way of 
intellectual or moral progress. 



30 THE READING-CLUB. 

I believe in the temperance movement. I am a temperance 
man of nearly forty years' standing; and I think it one of 
the grandest things in the world, because it holds the basis 
of self-control. Intemperance is the cause of poverty, I know; 
but there is another side to that : poverty is the cause of 
intemperance. Crowd a man with fourteen hours' work a 
day, and you crowd him down to a mere animal life. You 
have eclipsed his aspirations, dulled his tastes, stunted his 
intellect, and made him a mere tool, to work fourteen hours, 
and catch a thought in the interval ; and, while a man in a 
hundred will rise to be a genius, ninety-nine will cower down 
under the circumstances. 

That is why I say, lift a man, give him life, let him work 
eight hoars a day, give him the school, develop his taste for 
music, give him a garden, give him beautiful things to see, 
and good books to read, and you will starve out those lower 
appetites. Give a man a chance to earn a good living, and 
you may save his life. 

If you want power in this country, if you want to make 
yourselves felt; if you do not want your children to wait 
long j^ears before they have the bread on the table they 
ought to have, the 'leisure in their lives they ought to have, 
the opportunities in life they ought to have; if you don't 
want to wait yourselves, — write on your banner,' so that 
every political trimmer can read it, so that every politician, 
no matter how short-sighted he may be, can read it, " We 
never forget ! If you launch the arrow of sarcasm at labor, 
we never forget; if there is a division in Congress, and you 
throw your vote in the wrong scale, we never forget. You 
may go down on your knees, and say, ' I am sorry I did the 
act ; ' and we will say, ' It will avail you in heaven, but on 
this side of the grave never.' " So that a man, in taking up 
the labor question, will know he is dealing with a hair-trigger 
pistol, and will say, " I am to be true to justice and to man '- 
otherwise I am a dead duck." Wendell Phillips. 



LOVE AND PHILOSOPHY. 

'Twas a maiden full of knowledge, 

Though she'd scarcely passed eighteen; 

She was lovely as an angel, 

Though of grave and sober mien ; 



THE READING-CLUB. 31 

A sweet encyclopaedia 

Of every kind of lore ; 
And love looked coyly from behind 

The glasses that she wore. 

She sat beside her lover, 

With her elbow on his knee, 
And dreamily she gazed upon 

The slumbering summer sea. 

Until he broke the silence, 

Saying, " Pray inform me, dear, 
What people mean when speaking 

Of the Thingness of the Here. 

"I know you're just from Concord, 

Where the lights of wisdom be; 
Your head crammed full to bursting, love, 

With their philosophy, — 

" Those grave and reverend sages, 

And maids of hosiery blue. 
Then solve me the conundrum, dear, 

That I have put to you." 

The maid replied with gravity, — 

" The Thingness of the Here 
Is that which lies between the past 

And future time, my dear. 

" Indeed," the maid continued, with 

A calm, unruffled brow, 
" The Thingness of the Here is just 

The Thisness of the Now." 

The lover smiled a loving smile, 

And then he fondly placed 
A manly and protecting arm 

Around the maiden's waist ; 

And on her rosebud lips impressed 

A warm and loving kiss, 
And said, - That's what I call, my dear, 

The Xowness of the This." 

Geo. Runde Jackson. 



32 THE READING-CLUB. 

THE FLAG. 

AN INCIDENT OF STRAIN'S EXPEDITION. 

I never have got the bearings quite, 

Though I've followed the course for many a year, 
If he was crazy, clean outright, 

Or only what you might say was "queer." 

He was just a simple sailor man. 

I mind it as well as yisterday, 
When we messed aboard of the old " Cyane." 

Lord ! how the time does slip away ! 
That was five and thirty year ago, 

When ships was ships, and men was men, 
And sailors wasn't afraid to go 

To sea in a Yankee vessel then. 
He was only a sort of bosun's mate, 

But every inch of him taut and trim; 
Stars and anchors and togs of state 

Tailors don't build for the likes of him. 
He flew a no-account sort of name, 

A reg'lar fo'castle " Jim " or " Jack," 
With a plain " McGinnis " abaft the same, 

Giner'ly reefed to simple " Mack." 
Mack, we allowed, was sorter queer — 

Ballast or compass wasn't right; 
Till he licked four juicers, one day, a fear 

Prevailed that he hadn't larned to fight. 
But 1 reckoned the captain knowed his man, 

When he put the flag in his hand the day 
That we went ashore from the old " Cyane," 

On a madman's cruise for Darien Bay. 

Forty days in the wilderness 

We toiled and suffered and starved with Strain. 
Losing the number of many a mess 

In the Devil's swamps of the Spanish Main. 
All of us starved, and many died. 

One lay down, in his dull despair ; 
His stronger messmate went to his side, — 

We left them both in the jungle there. 



TEE READING-CLUB. 33 

It was hard to part with shipmates so ; 

But standing by would have done no good. 
We heard thein moaning all day, so slow 

We dragged along through the weary wood. 
McGinnis, he suffered the worst of all ; 

Not that he ever piped his eye, 
Or wouldn't have answered to the call 

If they'd sounded it for " All hands to die." 
I guess 'twould have sounded for him before, 

But the grit inside of him kept him strong, 
Till we met relief on the river shore ; 

And we all broke down when it came along. 

All but McGinnis. Gaunt and tall, 

Touching his hat, and standing square : 
" Captain, the flag" . . . And that was all. 

He just keeled over and foundered there. 
The flag? We thought he had lost his head, — 

It mightn't be much to lose at best, — 
Till we came, by and by, to dig his bed, 

And we found it folded around his breast. 
He lay so calm and smiling there, 

With the flag wrapped tight around his heart — 
Maybe he saw his course all fair, 

Only we couldn't read the chart. 

James Jeffrey Roche, 



BECAUSE. 



" Now, John," the district teacher says, 

With frown that scarce can hide 
The dimpling smiles around her mouth 

Where Cupid's hosts abide; 
"What have you done to Mary Ann, 

That she is crying so? 
Don't say 'twas nothing, — don't, I say r 

For, John, that can't be so. 

" For Mary Ann would never cry 

At nothing, I am sure ; 
And if you've wounded justice, John, 

You know the only cure 



34 THE READING-CLUB. 

Is punishment. So come, stand up; 

Transgressions must abide 
The pain attendant on the scheme 

That makes it justified." 

So John steps forth, with sunburnt face 

And hair all in a tumble, 
His laughing eyes a contrast to 

His drooping mouth so humble. 
"Now, Mary, you must tell me all, — 

I see that John will not, — 
And if he's been unkind or rude 

I'll whip him on the spot." 

" We — we were playin' p-prisoners' base, 

An' h-he is s-such a t-tease, 
An' w-when I w-wasn't 1-lookin', ma'am, 

H-he kissed me — if you please ! " 
Upon the teacher's face the smiles 

Have triumphed o'er the frown, 
A pleasant thought runs through her mind, 

The stick comes harmless down. 



But outraged law must be avenged : 

Begone, ye smiles, begone ! 
Away, ye little dreams of love ! 

Come on, ye frowns, come on ! 
" I think I'll have to whip you, John : 

Such conduct breaks the rule ; 
No boy, except a naughty one, 

Would kiss a girl — at school." 

Again the teacher's rod is raised, 

A Nemesis she stands : 
A premium were put on sin, 

If punished by such hands ! 
As when the bee explores the rose 

We see the petals tremble, 
So trembled Mary's rosebud lips ; 

Her heart would not dissemble.. 



TEE READING-CLUB. 35 

" I wouldn't whip him very hard," — 

The stick stops in its fall, 
" It wasn't right to do it, but 

It didn't hurt at all." 
" What made you cry, then, Mary Ann?" 

The school noise makes a pause, 
And out upon the listening air 

From Mary comes, " Because." 

Boston Transcript. 



TOGETHER ON THE STAIRS. 

They sat together on the stairs, 

Far up where there was shade : 
'Twas not because there were no chairs 

To sit on, I'm afraid. 

Some time they had been sitting there 

Alone, while others danced, 
And people, coming out for air 

'Tween dances, often glanced 

Up at them, while they seemed to be 

Oblivious of remark, 
And sat like two birds in a tree, 

Within a shady park. 

To eyes that saw them from below, 

They looked' a loving pair : 
The many signs which lovers show 

They seemed to show up there. 

At least, that is the way, to chaps * 

Who sauntered in the hall, 
Things looked ; but then, of course, perhaps, 
'Twas nothing after all. 

For, though on spooning they seemed bent, 

Regardless how time flew, 
'Twas possible that " distance lent 

Enchantment to the view." 



36 THE READING-CLUB. 

His face bent down until her brow 

Seemed touched by his mustache, 
While she smiled on him — well, just how 

A girl smiles on her mash. 

He whispered something low and sweet, 

And pointed down to where 
Two little blue-silk-slippered feet 

Were making people stare. 

She blushed, and thrust one farther out, 

As if for him to see ; 
A look of pain o'ercame her pout : 

What ever could it be ? 

" Sure, never did a girl with man 

So brazenly coquette 
In public," said, behind her fan, 

Each other girl you met. 

I'll own appearances, indeed, 

Were much against the maid ; 
But, as in many things we heed, 

Of harm there was no shade. 

How this I know, I'll tell to you : 

I chanced to stand quite near 
Upon the stairs, behind the two, 

And then to overhear. 

A long time passed, while neither spoke, 

And then at last said he, — 
" I'm sick of this : I'm sure you joke ; 

Your foot's quite well, I see. 

" You*could, if you but cared to try, 

With me come down and dance." 
Now, notice how her quick reply 

Destroys the scene's romance. 

" Perhaps you think my foot's all right; 

But, sure as you are born, 
I wish you wore my slippers tight, 

And had — just there — that corn." 

Andrew G. Tubbs, 



THE READING-CLUB. 37 



THE CHRISTENING. 

No, I won't forgive our parson — not down to my dyin' day. 
He'd orter waited a minnit; that's what I'll allers say; 
But to christen my boy, my baby, with such an orful name ! 
Why, where's the use o' talkin' ? I tell you he was to blame. 

You see, it happened in this way: There was father, an' 

Uncle Si, 
An' mother, an' each one wantin' a finger in the pie, — 
Euch with a name for baby, as ef I hadn't no voice ; 
But the more they talked an' argied, the more I stuck to my 

choice. 

" Semanthy " — this was father — " you'd best take pattern 

by mother, 
For she named thirteen children, 'thout any such fuss or 

bother : 
As soon as she diskivered that family names was too few, 
Why, she just fell back on the Bible, as perfessers air bound 

to do." 

" Semanthy " — this was Reuben — " most any one else could 

see, 
That, bein' as I'm his father, he orter be named for me. 
You say my name's old-fashioned; well, I'm old-fashioned 

too: 
Yet 'twarn't so long ago, nuther, that both of us suited you." 

Then there was Uncle Silas : " Semanthy, I tell ye what : 
Just name him Silas. I'll give him that hundred-acre lot. 
I'll make out the deed to-morrer ; an' then, when I've gone 

to my rest, 
There'll be a trifle o' money to help him feather his nest." 

But the worst of all was mother. She says, so meek an* 

mild, — 
" I'd love to call him Jotham, after my oldest child ; 
He died on his second birthda} 7 . The others are grown-up 

men, 
But Jotham is still my baby : he has never grown since then. 
His hair was soft and curlin', eyes blue as blue could be, 
An' this boy of yours, Semanthy, jest brings him back to 

me." 



38 THE READING-CLUB. 

Well, it warn't no easy matter to keep on saying No, 

An' disapp'intin' every one. Poor Rube he fretted so, 

When I told him the name I'd chosen, that he fairly made 
me cry. 

For I'd planned to name the darlin' Augustus Percival Guy. 

Ah ! that was a name worth hearin', so 'ristocratic an' grand ! 

He might 'a' held up his head then with the proudest in the 
land. 

But now — Well, 'tisn't no wonder, when I look at that 
blessed child, 

An' think of the name he's come to, that I can't be recon- 
ciled. 

At last I coaxed up Reuben, an' a Sabbath mornin' came 
When I took my boy to meetin' to git his Christian name. 
Jest as proud as a peacock I stood a-waitin' there ; 
I couldn't hardly listen to the readin' nor the prayer, 
For of half a dozen babies, mine was the finest of all ; 
An' they had sech common names too! But pride must 
have a fall. 

" What will ye call him ? '' says Parson Brown, bendin' his 

head, to hear. 
Then I handed a bit of paper up, with the names writ full 

an' clear. 
But Uncle Si, 'stead of passin' it, jest reads it over slow, 
With sech a wond'rin', puzzled face, as ef he didn't know. 
The child was beginnin' to fidget, an' Rube was gittin' red, 
So I kinder scowled at Uncle Si, and then I shook my head. 
"The name?" says Parson Brown agin; "I'm 'feared I 

haven't caught it." 
"Jee — hoshaphat! " says Uncle Si, out loud, before he thought 

it. 

The parson — he's near-sighted — he couldn't understand, 
Though I p'inted to the paper in Uncle Silas' hand. 
But that word did the business ; an' before I got my breath 
That boy was named Jehoshaphat. I felt a' most like 

death. 
I couldn't keep from cry in' as I hurried down the aisle, 
An' I fairly hated AVidder Green when I see her kinder 

smile. 
I've never, never called him by that name, an' never will, 
An' I can't forgive old Parson Brown, though I bear him no 

ill-will. E. T. Corbett, in Harper's. 



THE READING-CLUB. 39 



THE VILLAGE CHOIR. 



Half a bar, half a bar, 
Half a bar onward ! 
Into an awful ditch, 
Choir and precentor hitch, 
Into a mess of pitch, 
They led the Old Hundred. 
Trebles to right of them, 
Tenors to left of them, 
Basses in front of them, 

Bellowed and thundered. 
Oh, that precentor's look, 
When the sopranos took 
Their own time and hook, 
From the Old Hundred ! 

Screeched all the trebles here, 
Boggled the tenors there, 
Raising the parson's hair, 

While his mind wandered ; 
Theirs not to reason why 
This psalm was pitched too high : 
Theirs but to gasp and cry 

Out the Old" Hundred. 
Trebles to right of them, 
Tenors to left of them, 
Basses in front of them, 

Bellowed and thundered. 
Stormed they with shout and yell, 
Not wise they sang, nor well, 
Drowning the sexton's bell, 

While all the church wondered. 

Dire the precentor's glare, 
Flashed his pitchfork in air, 
Sounding the fresh keys to bear 

Out the Old Hundred. 
Swiftly he turned his back, 
Reached he his hat from rack, 
Then from the screaming pack 

Himself he sundered. 



40 THE READING-CLUB. 

Tenors to right of him, 
Trebles to left of him, 
Discords behind him 

Bellowed and thundered. 
Oh the wild howls they wrought ! 
Eight to the end they fought ! 
Some tune they sang, but not, 

Not the Old Hundred. 

— Andre's Journal. 



FILLING HIS PLACE. 

Young Rip Van Winkle took into his head 
To go on a cruise round the world, he said ; 

And in three years' time he would come once more, 
And all would go on as it had before. 

What a blank he left, alack and alack ! 

But the years went round till they brought him back. 

And one lazy day in the last of June 
Stood a sunburnt sailor, humming a tune, 

And watching them play on the cricket-ground. 
He was champion once of the country round; 

But that brawny lad with the laughing face, 
It was plain to see, was filling his place ; 

And with half a sigh he turned him away, 
Saying, " It matters not, it is naught but play." 

And he took the road to the old grist-mill, 
Where his place, he knew, they could never fill; 

For he'd miss him sore, the miller declared, 
And his own right hand could be better spared. 

The miller had found, on the day he sailed, 
A good honest lad, who had never failed. 



THE HEADING-CLUB. 41 

" Well, all men can work, but all cannot sing. 
I'll sit in the choir ; and they'll know the ring 

" Of my voice again, for the girls did say 
'Twould break up the choir when I went away." 

Has it lost the ring that it had of old ? 

For they look askance, and with glances cold ; 

And the girls declare, with a pretty pout, 
That the stranger there, he has put them out. 

What matters it, though, when trifles befall ? 
One sweet hope is left, that is better than all : 

His neighbors and friends may all have forgot, 
But sweet Mary Ann, he is sure, has not. 

She gave him a rose when he sailed away : 
He'll show her that rose when he goes to-day. 

How glad she will be, after waiting so long, 
To see him again so hearty and strong ! 

Alas for the sailor ! alas for the rose ! 

They've gone round the world, and this is the close: 

" You have stayed too long, you have stayed too long, 
Had you come before," — this was all her song, — 

" You had found my heart but an empty nest, 
And ready to welcome its truant guest. 

Go, bring the dead rose to life if you can, 
But your place is filled by a better man." 

And sadder and wiser he went his way, 
But he kept that rose to his dying day. 

Maria L. Eve, 



42 THE READING-CLUB. 



THE HERITAGE. 

The rich man's son inherits lands, 

And piles of brick and stone and gold; 

And he inherits soft, white hands, 
And tender flesh that feels the cold, 
Nor dares to wear a garment old, — 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

One scarce would wish to hold in fee. 

The rich man's son inherits cares : 
The bank may break, the factory burn ; 

A breath may burst his bubble shares; 
And soft white hands could hardly earn 
A living that would serve his turn, — 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

One scarce would wish to hold in fee. 

The rich man's son inherits wants : 
His stomach craves for dainty fare ; 

With sated heart, he hears the pants 
Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare, 
And wearies in his easy chair, — 

A heritage, it "seems to me, 

One scarce would wish to hold in fee. 

What doth the poor man's son inherit? 
Stout muscles and a sinewy heart, 

A hardy frame, a hardier spirit ; 
King of two hands, he does his part 
In every useful toil and art, — 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

A king might wish to hold in fee. 

What doth the poor man's son inherit? 
Wishes o'er joyed with humble things, 

A rank adjudged by toil-worn merit, 
Content that from employment springs, 
A heart that in his labor sings, — 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

A king might wish to hold in fee. 



THE READING-CLUB. 43 

What doth the poor man's son inherit? 
A patience learned by being poor ; 

Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it ; 
A fellow-feeling that is sure 
To make the outcast bless his door, — 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

A king might wish to hold in fee. 

O rich man's son ! there is a toil, 

That with all others level stands : 
Large charity doth never soil, 

But only whiten, soft white hands ; 

This is the best crop from thy lands, — 
A heritage, it seems to me, 
Worth being rich to hold' in fee. 

O poor man's son ! scorn not thy state : 
There is worse weariness than thine, 

In merely being rich and great ; 
Toil only gives the soul to shine, 
And makes rest fragrant and benign, — 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

Worth being poor to hold in fee. 

Both, heirs to some six feet of sod, 

Are equal in the earth at last; 
Both, children of the same dear God, 
Prove title to your heirship vast 
By record to a well-filled past, — 
A heritage, it seems to me, 
Well worth a life to hold in fee. 

James Russell Lowell. 
♦ 

CASABIANCA (Colored). 

One darky stood in the 'backer patch, 

Whence all the rest had fled ;* 
While the mule-heels, clods, and green worms flew 

A-whizzing round his head. 

Savory, stout, and black he stood, 

As born to work a farm, 
While gaping mouth and bulging eyes 

Betokened his alarm. 



44 TEE READING-CLUB. 

That mule kicked hard : he wouldn't leave 

" Unless de boss said so." 
" De boss," unconscious of his plight, 

Had gone off to the show. 

The darky yelled, " See here, boss, say ! 

Mus' I lef dis mule go? " 
Just then the boss was miles away, 

And Cuffee called out " Whoa ! " 

Quite thick and fast a cloud of dust 

Arose towards the sky, 
And filled the darky's eyes and nose 

Like flour off hotel pie. 

" Say, boss ! " again poor Cuffee cried, 
" Ef 'tain't mos' time I'se gone ? " 

Naught but the clattering hoofs replied, 
As the agile mule kicked on. 

At last there came a thunderous crash 
That made the earth resound ; 

And when the dust and debris passed, 
The mule could not be found. 

That fateful last terrific kick 
Had struck on Cuffee's head ; 

And now the mule, a shattered wreck, 
Lay far off, limp and dead. 



MARY'S LAMB ON A NEW PRINCIPLE. 

Mollie had a little ram as black as rubber shoe, and every- 
where that Mollie went he emigrated too. 

He went with her to church one day ; the folks hilarious 
grew, to see him walk demurely into Deacon Allen's pew. 

The worthy deacon quickly let his angry passions rise, and 
gave it an unchristian kick between the sad brown eyes. 

This landed rammy in the aisle ; the deacon followed fast, 
and raised his foot again : alas ! that first kick was his last. 



THE READING-CLUB. 45 

For Mr. Sheep walked slowly back, about a rod 'tis said, 
and ere the deacon could retreat he stood him on his head. 

The congregation then arose, and went for that 'ere sheep : 
several well-directed butts just piled them in a heap. 

Then rushed they straightway for the door, with curses 
long and loud ; while rammy struck the hindmost man, and 
shoved him through the crowd. 

The minister had often heard that kindness would subdue 
the fiercest beast. " Aha ! " he said, " I'll try that game on 
you." 

And so he kindly, gently, called, " Come, rammy, rammy, 
ram ; to see the folks abuse you so, I grieved and sorry am." 

With kind and gentle words he came from that tall pulpit 
down, saying, "Rammy, rammy, ram — best sheepy in the 
town." 

The ram quite dropped its humble air, and rose from off 
his feet; and when the parson landed, he was behind the 
hindmost seat. 

As he shot out the door, and closed it with a slam, he 
named a California town — I think 'twas " Yuba Dam." 



CUT, CUT BEHIND. 

Vhen shnow und ice vas on der ground, 

Und merry shleigh-bells shingle ; 
Vhen Shack Frost he vas peen around, 

Und make mine oldt ears tingle — 
I hear dhose roguish gamins say, 

" Let shoy pe unconfined ! " 
Und dhen dhey go for efry shleigh, 

Und yell, " Cut, cut pehind ! " 

It makes me shust feel young some more, 

To hear dhose youngsters yell, 
Und eef I don'd vas shtiif und sore, 

Py shings ! I shust vould — Veil, 
Vhen some oldt pung was coomin' py, 

I dink I'd feel inclined 
To shump right in upon der shly, 

Und shout, " Cut, cut pehind ! " 



46 THE READING-CLUB. 

I mind me vot mine fader said 

Vonce vhen I vas a poy, 
Mit meeschief alvays in mine head, 

Und fool of life unci shoy. 
"Now, Hans, keep of£ der shleighs," says he, 

" Or else shust bear in mind, 
I dake you righdt across my knee, 

Und cut, cut, cut pehind ! " 

Veil, dot vas years und years ago, 

Und mine young Yawcob too, 
Vas now shkydoodling droo der shnow, 

Shust like I used to do ; 
Und ven der pungs coom py mine house, 

I shust peeks droo der plind, 
Und sings oudt, " Go id, Yawcob Strauss, 

Cut, cut, cut, cut, pehind ! " 

Charles Follen Adams, in Harpers, 



SCENE FROM ION. 

CHARACTERS. 

Adrastus. Crythes. 

Adrastus discovered. — Crythes introducing Ion. 

Cry. The king ! 

Ad. Stranger, I bid thee welcome : 
We are about to tread the same dark passage, 
Thou almost on the instant. — Is the sword [To Crythes. 
Of justice sharpened, and the headsman ready? 

Cry. Thou mayst behold them plainly in the court ; 
Even now the solemn soldiers line the ground, 
The steel gleams on the altar, and the slave 
Disrobes himself for duty. 

Ad. (to Ion) Dost thou see them ? 

Ion. I do. , 

Ad. By Heaven ! he does not change. 

If, even now, thou wilt depart, and leave 
Thy traitorous thoughts unspoken, thou art free. 

Ion. I thank thee for thy offer ; but I stand 



THE READING-CLUB. 47 

Before thee for the lives of thousands, rich 

In all that makes life precious to the brave; 

Who perish not alone, but in their fall 

Break the far-spreading tendrils that they feed, 

And leave them nurtureless. If thou wilt hear me 

For them, I am content to speak no more. 

Ad. Thou hast thy wish, then. — Crythes ! till yon dial 
Casts its thin shadow on the approaching hour, 
I hear this gallant traitor. On the instant, 
Come without word, and lead him to his doom. 
Now leave us. 

Cry. What, alone ? 

Ad. Yes, slave, alone: 

He is no assassin ! [Exit Crythes. 

Tell me who thou art. 
What generous source owns that heroic blood, 
Which holds its course thus bravely? What great wars 
Have nursed the courage that can look on death — 
Certain and speedy death — with placid eye? 

Ion. I am a simple youth who never bore 
The weight of armor ; one who may not boast 
Of noble birth, or valor of his own. 
Deem not the powers which nerve me thus to speak 
In thy great presence, and have made my heart, 
Upon the verge of bloody death, as calm, 
As equal in its beatings, as when sleep 
Approached me nestling from the sportive toils 
Of thoughtless childhood, and celestial forms 
Began to glimmer through the deepening shadows 
Of soft oblivion, — to belong to me ! 
These are the strengths of Heaven ; to thee they speak, 
Bid thee to hearken to thy people's cry, 
Or warn thee that thy hour must shortly come ! 

Ad. I know it must ; so mayst thou spare thy warnings. 
The envious gods in me have doomed a race, 
Whose glories stream from the same cloud-girt founts 
Whence their own dawn upon the infant world ; 
And I shall sit on my ancestral throne 
To meet their vengeance ; but till then I rule 
As I have ever ruled, and thou wilt feel. 

Ion. I will not further urge thy safety to thee ; 
It may be, as thou sayest, too late ; nor seek 
To make thee tremble at the gathering curse 



48 THE READING-CLUB, 

Which shall burst forth in mockery at thy fall ; 

But thou art gifted with a nobler sense, — 

I know thou art my sovereign ! — sense of pain 

Endured by myriad Argives, in whose souls, 

And in whose fathers' souls, thou and thy fathers 

Have kept- their cherished state ; whose heart-strings, still 

The living fibres of thy rooted power, 

Quiver with agonies thy crimes have drawn 

From heavenly justice on them. 

Ad. How ! my crimes ? 

Ion. Yes ; 'tis the eternal law, that where guilt is, 
Sorrow shall answer it ; and thou hast not 
A poor man's privilege to bear alone, 
Or in the narrow circle of his kinsmen, 
The penalties of evil ; for in thine, 
A nation's fate lies circled. King Adrastus ! 
Steeled as thy heart is with the usages 
Of pomp and power, a few short summers since 
Thou wert a child, and canst not be relentless. 
Oh, if maternal love embraced thee then, 
Think of the mothers who with eyes unwet * 
Glare o'er their perishing children ; hast thou shared 
The glow of a first friendship which is born 
'Midst the rude sports of boyhood, think of youth 
Smitten amidst its playthings ; let the spirit 
Of thy own innocent childhood whisper pity ! 

A d. In every word thou dost but steel my soul. 
My youth was blasted : parents, brother, kin — 
All that should people infancy with joy — 
Conspired to poison mine ; despoiled my life 
Of innocence and hope, — all but the sword 
And sceptre. Dost thou wonder at me now ? 

Ion. I know that we should pity — 

Ad. Pity ! Dare 

To speak that word again, and torture waits thee ! 
I am yet king of Argos. Well, go on ; 
The time is short, and I am pledged to hear. 

Ion. If thou hast ever loved — 

Ad. Beware ! beware ! 

Ion. Thou hast ! I see thou hast ! Thou art not marble, 
And thou shalt hear me ! Think upon the time 
When the clear depths of thy yet lucid soul 
Were ruffled with the troublings of strange joy, 



THE READING-CLUB. 49 

As if some unseen visitant from heaven 

Touched the calm lake, and wreathed its images 

In sparkling waves ; recall the dallying hope 

That on the margin of assurance trembled, 

As loath to lose in certainty too blest 

Its happy being ; taste in thought again 

Of the stolen sweetness of those evening walks, 

When pansied turf was air to winged feet, 

And circling forests, by ethereal touch 

Enchanted, wore the livery of the sky, 

As if about to melt in golden light, 

Shapes of one heavenly vision ; and thy heart, 

Enlarged by its new sympathy with one, 

Grew bountiful to all ! 

Ad. That tone ! that tone ! 

Whence came it? from thy lips ? It cannot be 
The long-hushed music of the only voice 
That ever spake unbought affection to me, 
And waked my soul to blessing. O sweet hours 
Of golden joy, ye come ! your glories break 
Through my pavilion'd spirit's sable folds. 
Roll on ! roll on ! — Stranger, thou dost enforce me 
To speak of things unbreathed by lip of mine 
To human ear : wilt listen ? 

Ion. As a child. 

Ad. Again ! that voice again ! Thou hast seen me 
moved 
As never mortal saw me, by a tone 
Which some light breeze, enamoured of the sound, 
Hath wafted through the woods, til] thy young voice 
Caught it to rive and melt me. At my birth 
This city, which, expectant of its prince, 
Lay hushed, broke out in clamorous ecstasies ; 
Yet, in that moment, while the uplifted cups 
Foamed with the choicest product of the sun, 
And welcome thundered from a thousand throats, 
My doom was sealed. From the hearth's vacant space, 
In the dark chamber where my mother lay, 
Faint with the sense of pain-bought happiness, 
Came forth in heart-appalling tone, these words 
Of me, the nursling : " Woe unto the babe ! 
Against the life which now begins shall life, 
Lighted from thence, be armed, and, both soon quenched, 



50 THE READING-CLUB. 

End this great line in sorrow ! " Ere I grew 

Of years to know myself a thing accursed, 

A second son was born, to steal the love 

Which fate had else scarce rifled : he became 

My parents' hope, the darling of the crew 

Who lived upon their smiles, and thought it flattery 

To trace in every foible of my youth — 

A prince's youth — the workings of the curse. 

My very mother — Jove ! I cannot bear 

To speak it now — looked freezingly upon me. 

Ion. But thy brother — 

Ad. Died. Thou hast heard the lie, 

The common lie that every peasant tells 
Of me, his master. — that I slew the boy. 
'Tis false ! One summer's eve, below a crag 
Which, in his wilful mood, he strove to climb, 
He lay a mangled corpse : the very slaves, 
Whose cruelty had shut him from my heart, 
Now coined their own injustice into proofs 
To brand me as his murderer. 

Ion. Did they dare 

Accuse thee ? 

Ad. Not in open speech : they felt 

I should have seized the miscreant by the throat, 
And crushed the lie half-spoken with the life 
Of the base speaker : but the tale looked out 
From the stolen gaze of coward eyes, which shrank 
When mine have met them ; murmured through the crowd 
That at the sacrifice, or feast, or game, 
Stood distant from me ; burnt into my soul, 
When I beheld it in my father's shudder ! 

Ion. Didst not declare thy innocence ? 

Ad. To whom ? 

To parents who could doubt me ? To the ring 
Of grave impostors, or their shallow sons, 
Who should have studied to prevent my wish 
Before it grew to language ; hailed my choice 
To service as a prize to wrestle for ; 
And whose reluctant courtesy I bore, 
Pale with proud anger, till from lips compressed 
The blood has started ? To the common herd, 
The vassals of our ancient house, the mass 
Of bones and muscles framed to till the soil 



THE READING-CLUB. 51 

A few brief years, then rot unnamed beneath it ; 

Or, decked for slaughter at their master's call, 

To smite, and to be smitten, and lie crushed 

In heaps to swell his glory or his shame ? 

Answer to them ? No ! though my heart had burst, 

As it was nigh to bursting ! To the mountains 

I fled, and on their pinnacles of snow 

Breasted the icy wind, in hope to cool 

My spirit's fever; struggled with the oak 

In search of weariness, and learned to rive 

Its stubborn boughs, till limbs once lightly strung 

Might mate in cordage with its infant stems ; 

Or on the sea-beat rock tore off the vest 

Which burnt upon my bosom, and to air 

Headlong committed, clove the water's depth 

Which plummet never sounded, — but in vain. 

Ion. Yet succor came to thee ? 

Ad. A blessed one! 

Which the strange magic of thy voice revives, 
And thus unlocks my soul. My rapid steps 
Were in a wood-encircled valley stayed 
By the bright vision of a maid, whose face 
Most lovely, more than loveliness revealed 
In touch of patient grief, which dearer seemed 
Than happiness to spirit seared like mine. 
With feeble hands she strove to lay in earth 
The body of her aged sire, whose death 
Left her alone. I aided her sad work ; 
And soon two lonely ones by holy rites 
Became one happy being. Days, weeks, months, 
In streamlike unity flowed silent by us 
In our delightful nest. My father's spies — 
Slaves, whom my nod should have consigned to stripes 
Or the swift falchion — tracked our sylvan home, 
Just as my bosom knew its second joy, 
And, spite of fortune, I embraced a son. 

Ion. Urged by thy trembling parents to avert 
That dreadful prophecy. 

Ad. Fools ! did they deem 

Its worst accomplishment could match the ill 
Which they wrought on me ? It had left unharmed 
A thousand ecstasies of passioned years, 
Which, tasted once, live ever, and disdain 



52 THE READING-CLUB. 

Fate's iron grapple ! Could I now behold 
That son with knife uplifted at my heart, 
A moment ere my life-blood followed it, 
I would embrace him with my dying eyes, 
And pardon destiny ! While jocund smiles 
Wreathed on the infant's face, as if sweet spirits 
Suggested pleasant fancies to its soul, 
The ruffians broke upon us — seized the child — 
Dashed through the thicket to the beetling rock 
'Neath which the deep sea eddies ; I stood still, 
As stricken into stone : I heard him cry, 
Pressed by the rudeness of the murderer's grip, 
Severer ill unf earing — then the splash 
Of waters that shall cover him forever ; 
And could not stir to save him ! 

Ion. And the mother ? 

Ad. She spake no word; but clasped me in her arms, 
And laid her down to die ! A lingering gaze 
Of love she fixed on me, — none other loved, — 
And so passed from hence. By Jupiter ! her look, 
Her dying patience glimmers in thy face ! 
She lives again ! She looks upon me now ! 
There's magic in't. Bear with me — I am childish. 

Enter Crythes and Guards. 

Why art thou here ? 

Cry. The dial points the hour. 

Ad. Dost thou not see that horrid purpose passed ? 
Hast thou no heart — no sense ? 

Cry. Scarce half an hour 

Hath flown since the command on which I wait. 

Ad. Scarce half an hour ! Years, years have rolled since 
then. 
Begone ! Remove that pageantry of death ; 
It blasts my sight. And hearken ! Touch a hair 
Of this brave youth, or look on him as now, 
With thy cold headsman's eye, and yonder band 
Shall not expect a fearful show in vain. 
Hence ! without a word. [Exit Crythes. 

What wouldst thou have me do ? 

Ion. Let thy awakened heart speak its own language : 
Convene thy sages ; frankly, nobly meet them ; 



THE READING-CLUB. 53 

Explore with them the pleasure of the gods, 
And whatsoe'er the sacrifice, perform it. 

Ad. Well, I will seek their presence in an hour: 
Go summon them, young hero ! Hold ! no word 
Of the strange passion thou hast witnessed here. 

Ion. Distrust me not. — Benignant powers ! I thank ye ! 

[Exit. 

Ad. Yet stay ! — He's gone — his spell is on me yet ; 
What have I promised him ? To meet the men 
Who from my living head would strip the crown, 
And sit in judgment on me ? I must do it. 
Yet shall my band be ready to o'erawe 
The cause of liberal speech, and if it rise 
So as too loudly to offend my ear, 
Strike the rash brawler dead ! What idle dream 
Of long- past days had melted me ? It fades — 
It vanishes — I am again a king. 

Sir Thomas Noon Talfourd. 



MISSING. 



In the cool, sweet hush of a wooded nook, 

Where the May-buds sprinkle the green old sward, 
And the winds and the birds and the limpid brook 

Murmur their dreams with a drowsy sound, 
Who lies so still in the plushy moss, 

With his pale cheek pressed on a breezy pillow, 
Couched where the light and shadows cross, 

Through the flickering fringe of the willow, — 
Who lies, alas ! 
So still, so chill, in the whispering grass ? 

A soldier, clad in a Zouave dress, 

A bright-haired man, with his lips apart ; 
One hand thrown over his frank, dead face, 

And the other clutching his pulseless heart, 
Lies here in the shadows cool and dim, 

His musket swept by a trailing bough ; 
With a careless grace in his quiet limbs, 

And a wound on his manly brow, — 
A wound, alas ! 
Whence the warm blood drips on the quiet grass. 



54 THE READING-CLUB. 

The violets peer from their dusky beds, 

With a tearful dew in their great, pure eyes ; 
The lilies quiver their shining heads, 

Their pale lips full of- sad surprise ; 
And the lizard glides through the glistening fern, 

And the squirrel rustles the branches hoary ; 
Strange birds fly out with a cry, to bathe 

Their wings in the sunset glory, 
While the shadows pass 
O'er the quiet face and the dewy grass. 

God pity the bride who waits at home, 

With her lily cheeks and her violet eyes, 
Dreaming the sweet old dream of love, 

While her lover is walking in paradise ! 
God strengthen her heart as the days go by, 

And the long, drear nights of her vigil follow, 
Nor bird, nor moon, nor whispering wind, 

May breathe the tale of the hollow ; 
Alas! alas! 
The secret's safe with the woodland grass. 



DECORATION DAY. 

Down by the clear river's side they wandered, 

Hand in hand, on that perfect day ; 
He was young, handsome, brave, and tender, 

She more sweet than the flowers of May. 

He looked on her with brown eyes adoring, 
Watching her blushes grow soft and deep ; 

"Darling," he said, with tones imploring, 
" Shall we not ever the memory keep 

" Of this bright day, so happy, so holy ; 

This sweetest hour my life has e'er known, 
When you, dear, speaking gently and slowly, 

Answered me ' Yes,' when I called you my own ? * 

Fair was the sky, the sunset, the river, 
Wind in the trees, the water's low psalm, 

Bird-song, scent of wild roses. Oh, never 
Was there an hour more blissful and calm ! 



THE READING-CLUB. 55 

Close in his arms he held her : the morrow 

Would bring to their fond hearts parting and pain, — 

After love's rapture, bitterest sorrow ; 
After May sunshine, gloom and the rain. 

The country her sons to save her was calling : 
He answered her summons, fearless and brave ; 

On to the front, where heroes were falling, 
Love and all of life's promise he gave. 

She hy the hearth, through long hours slow measure, 
Watched and yearned, and suffered and prayed ; 

Read o'er his letters, lovingly treasured, 
Hoped his return, — to hope, half afraid. 

" God is good," she said. " His love will infold him, 
Protect him, and bring him safe to me again; 

I shall hear him once more, in rapture behold him, — 
Oh, blessed reward, for my waiting and pain ! " 

In camp, on the field, on marches long, weary, 
Her face and her voice in his heart's inner shrine 

He kept ; they brightened his way when most dreary, 
Lifted his life to the Life all divine. 

He fell in the ranks, at awful Stone River, 
Blood of our heroes made sacred that sod ; 

On battle's red tide his soul went out ever 
Forward and upward, to meet with his God. 

Worn, grown old, yet tenderly keeping, 

Every May month, sad tryst with her dead, 

She knows not where her darling is sleeping, 
She lays no garlands on his low bed. 

All soldiers' graves claim her love and her blessing : 

She decks them with flowers made sacred by tears ; 
Love of her heart for her soldier expressing, 
"Love that is stronger than death," through the years. 

Soon in the land of unfading beauty, 

He, faithful knight of valor and truth, 
She, living martyr to country and duty, 

Shall find the sweetness and love of their youth. 



56 THE READING-CLUB. 

Honor the dead with the richest oblation, — 
Cover their graves with laurel and palm! 

Honor the living for life's consecration, — 

Give to their pierced hearts love's healing balm. 

Mary Bassett Hussey. 



WHEN GREEK MET GREEK. 

Stranger here? Yes, come from Varmount, 

Rutland County. You've hearn tell, 
Mebbe, of the town of Granville ? 

You born there ? No ! Sho ! Well, well ! 
You was born at Granville, was you ? 

Then you know Elisha Brown, 
Him as runs the old meat-market 

At the lower end of town V 
Well, well, well ! Born down in Granville, 

And out here, so far away ! 
Stranger, I'm homesick already, 

Though it's but a week to-day 
Since I left my good wife standin' 

Out there at the kitchen-door, 
Sayin' she'd ask God to keep me, 

And her eyes were runnin' o'er. 
You must know old Albert Withers, 

Henry Bull, and Ambrose Cole? 
Know them all ! And born in Granville? 

Well, well, w 7 ell! God bless my soul ! 
Sho ! You're not old Isaac's nephew, 

Isaac Green, down on the flat, 
Isaac's oldest nephew, — Henry? 

Well, I'd never thought of that ! 
Have I got a hundred dollars 

I could loan you for a minute, 
Till you buy a horse at Marcy's ? 

There's my wallet, — just that in it. 
Hold on, though ! You have ten, mebbe, 

You could let me keep ; you see, 
I might chance to need a little 

Betwixt now and half-past three. 
Ten. That's it ; you'll owe me ninety ; 

Bring it round to the hotel. 



THE READING-CLUB. 57 

So you're old friend Isaac's nephew ? 

Born in Granville ! Sho ! Well, well! 
— What ! Policeman ! Did you call me ? 

That a rascal going there ? 
Well, sir, do you know, I thought so, 

And I played him pretty fair; 
Hundred-dollar bill I gave him, — 

Counterfeit, — and got his ten ! 
Ten ahead ! No ! You don't tell me ! 

This bad too ? Sho ! Sold again ! 



THE RAJAH'S CLOCK. 

Rajah Balpoora, Prince of Jullinder, 

Reigned in the land where the Five Rivers ran; 
A lordly tyrant, with none to hinder 

His wildest pleasure or maddest plan. 
His hall was beauty, his throne was splendor, 

His meat was dainties of every zone ; 
Nor ever a joy that wealth can render, 

His whimsical fancy left unknown. 
For afar, in sight of his palace windows, 

His realm was gardens on every hand ; 
And the feet of a hundred thousand Hindoos 

Came and went at his least command. 
But one thing, worthy his pride to show it, 

Among his treasures, eclipsed them all ; 
'Twas the marvel of sage and the praise of poet, — 

The wonderful clock in his palace hall. 
Brain and fingers of matchless cunning 

Patiently planned the strange machine, — 
Framed, and balanced, and set it running, 

With a living heart in its wheels unseen. 
Behind the dial, the iron pallet 

Counted the seconds ; and just below 
Hung a silver gong, and a brazen mallet 

For every hour had a brazen blow ; 
And near, like windrowed leaves in the weather, 

Or battle-wrecks at a charnel door, 
Lay mock men's limbs all huddled together 

In a shapeless heap on a marble floor. 



58 THE READING-CLUB. 

And •when the dial-hands, creeping, pointed 

The smallest hour on the disk of day, 
Click ! from the piecemeal pile, re jointed, 

A new-made manikin jumped away. 
Nimble-handed, a small, trim figure, 

Briskly he stooped where his work begun, 
Seized a mallet with nervous vigor, 

And loud on the echoing gong struck one. 
Clang ! and the hammer that made the clamor 

Dropped, and lay where it lay before, 
And the arms of the holder fell off at the shoulder, 

And his head went rolling dowm to the floor, 
And the little man tumbled, and cracked, and crumbled, 

Till the human shape that he lately bore, 
With a shiver and start all rattled apart, 

And vanished — as if to rise no more. 

Dead ! ere the great bell's musical thunder 

In the listening chambers throbbed away, — 
No eye discovered the hidden wonder 

(That dreaming under the ruins lay), — 
Dead as the bones in the prophet's valley, 

Waiting with never a stir or sound, 
While the pendulum's tick, tick, tick, kept tally, 

And the busy wheels of the clock went round, — 
Till another hour, to its limit creeping, 

Its sign those bodiless limbs shot through, 
And a pair of manikins, swift up-leaping, 

Loud on the echoing gong struck two. 
Clang ! clang ! and the brazen hammers . 

Dropped, and lay where they lay before, 
And the arms of the holders fell off their shoulders, 

And their heads went rolling down to the floor, 
And the little men tumbled, and cracked, and crumbled, 

And vanished — as if to rise no more. 

Still as the shells of the sea-floor, sleeping 

Countless fathoms the waves below ; 
Still as the stones of a city heaping 

The path of an earthquake ages ago, 
Lay the sundered forms ; but steadily swinging, 

Beat the slow pendulum, — tick, tick, tick, — 
Till lo ! at the third hour, suddenly springing, 

Rose three men's limbs with a click, click, click. 



THE READING-CLUB. 59 

And, joined together, by magic gifted, 

In stature perfect and motion free, 
The trio, each with his mallet lifted, 

Loud on the echoing gong struck three. 
Clang ! clang ! clang ! and the brazen hammers 

Dropped, and lay where they lay before, 
And the arms of the holders fell off their shoulders, 

And their heads went rolling down to the floor, 
And the little men tumbled, and cracked, and crumbled, 

And vanished — as if to rise no more. 

And as many as each hour's figure numbered, 

So many men of that small brigade, 
Whose members the marble floor encumbered, 

Made themselves, and as soon unmade ; 
Till at noon rose all, and, each one swinging 

His brazen sledge by its brazen helve, 
Set all the rooms- of the palace ringing 

As their strokes on the silver gong told twelve. 

Rajah Balpoora, Prince of Jullinder, 

Died. But the great clock's tireless heart 
Beat on ; and still, in that hall of splendor, 

The twelve little sextons played their part. 
And the wise who entered the palace portal 

Read in the wonder the lesson plain : — 
Every human hour is a thing immortal, 

And days but perish to rise again. 
From the grave of every life we saddened, 

Comes back the clamor of olden wrongs ; 
And our deeds that other souls have gladdened, 

Ring from the past like angel songs. 

Theron Brown. 



THE DEACON'S RIDE. 

On his cool back porch sat Deacon Brown, the richest and 

fattest man in town. 
Before, behind, to left and right, showed meadows dotted 

with gold and white, 
And grazing there in the pastures green, fifteen fine Jerseys 

as ever seen ; 



60 THE READING-CLUB. 

The regular herd-book stock were they, and how much but- 
ter they made each day, 
I hardly would dare attempt to say. 

No greater joy had Deacon Brown, than to sit on the porch, 

as the sun went down, 
And view his acres so broad and fine, and feast his eyes on 

his Jersey kine ; 
But now his face wore a look much vexed, and he drummed 

his knees in a way perplexed, 
As, sitting snug in his tilted chair, he gazed at the goodly 

show and fair, 
Of bovine beauties grazing there. 

Well might the Deacon muse and frown, and vaguely scratch 

his smooth, bald crown ; 
For a Jersey heifer, his pride and boast, the one of all that 

he valued most, 
Had taken it into her head that she not like her meeker 

sisters would be, 
And so, at sight of the milking-pail, would lower her horns 

and thrash her tail, 
And kick till her kicking power would fail. 

All sorts of cures had the Deacon tried ; but, alas for a good 

old churchman's pride ! 
" The finest heifer in this 'ere town " would never a drop of 

milk give down 
For one wmole day, though coaxed and fed with the "cream 

of the place," so the Deacon said ; 
And when thrice she'd knocked the good man over, as if 

barnyard mud were a field of clover, 
He vowed in his wrath, as a deacon may, that he'd sell the 

creetur the very next day, 
To the village butcher, and risk his pay. 

Yet now, as he sat and thought it o'er, it seemed that his 

cross was indeed most sore ; 
He could not do it ; 'twould break his heart, from his goodly 

heifer this way to part ! 
Just then strolled toward him his elder son, who never a bit 

of work had done. 



THE READING-CLUB. 61 

But fished in the brook through the livelong day, instead of 
helping get in the hay, 
Or " lift " at the work in any way. 

So the Deacon frowned a frown most stern : " 'Twas time 

that a lazy youth should learn 
To earn his salt ; 'twas different when he was his age, — the 

men icas men, 
Not idle care-naughts ; and going to school made something 

besides a college fool." 
Then, growing milder, " Wal, 'bout Peachblow — I reckoned 

a cure you'd hap to know, 
In that heathen gabble you chatter so." 

Quoth the idle scapegrace, with twinkling eye, " I've heard 
gf a cure which you might try." 

Then some Latin words he gravely said. " If on to her back 
a weight is laid, 

She'll give milk straightway, and quiet be." Said the doubt- 
ing Deacon, "I'll try and see." 

Out in the stable Peachblow stood, calm chewing her cud 

as a heifer should. 
Spoke the Deacon : " William, you're young and spry ; you 

can climb on her back, now, quicker'n I. 
You'll do for the weight. I'll fetch the stool, and milk the 

critter : you just keep cool." 
But scarce had the hopeful gained his seat, when out flew the 

placid Peachblow's feet, 
And milker and milking-stool upset, in a way too hurried for 

etiquette. 

And the Deacon roared in his wrath, " Get down ! I'll try 
myself, — that'll bring her roun'." 

And, puffing and grumbling, with Will to boost, he found 
himself on his novel roost. 

But, alas ! with what little certainty can we plume our minds 
on things to be ! 

For, just as the Deacon, with voice elate, cried, " Go to milk- 
in' ; you needn't w T ait ! " 
The stanchion was loosed by some luckless Fate, — 

And wildly out through the open door dashed — as she never 
had dashed before — 



62 THE READING-CLUB. 

The frightened heifer, with snorts and bounds, and her load 
of a hundred and ninety pounds. 

The roaring scapegrace behind was left ; while, like a crea- 
ture of sense bereft, 

Young Peachblow flew with her frantic feet, a-bellowing 
down the village street, — 
To the district school-boys what a treat ! 

The Deacon's neckerchief flapped in the wind ; his hat blew 

off, and was left behind; 
His eyes bulged out, his face grew white, his fringe of hair 

stood up with fright; 
The children scampered with laugh and hoot, the dogs all 

started in mad pursuit ; 
The geese they squawked, and the chickens flew ; the wives 

ran, startled by such ado ; 9 

Out ran the husbands, to cry, " Halloo ! " 

And the good old parson, with face aghast, flew to the gate 

as the deacon passed. 
What a dreadful scandal throughout the town «might rise 

from this frolic of Deacon Brown ! 
Was he drunk, or crazy, that thus he'd ride ? And, loud as 

he could, the parson cried, 
" Stop, stop, Brother Brown ! Oh ! where w 7 ill you go ? " 

and back from the dust came these words of woe : 
" The Lord and this cow, sir, only know ! " 

But she stopped at last, this steed so gay ; she stopped quite 

short in a sudden way, 
Struck out her heels with a graceful poise, and the hundred 

and ninety avoirdupois 
Shot over her head and into the dirt, with buttonless breeches 

and tattered shirt. 

Sadder and wiser, Deacon Brown led Peachblow home as the 
sun went down ; 

And all the questioners got him to say was, that he might tell 
them some other day. 

But Peachblow was lamb- like enough that night, — was 
milked very meekly, and seemed all right. 

And the Deacon mused : " Wal, the heathen may have fust- 
rate cow cures, but I must say, 
They are tryin' to old folks, anyway." 

Mary C. Huntington. 



THE READING-CLUB. ' 63 



THE SILVER BELL. 

Once upon a time, an old legend says, in a splendid pal- 
ace a king lay dying. By his couch knelt his only son, with 
tears streaming down his face ; but only a few quiet words 
were now and then spoken. 

" Father, you remember the beautiful silver bell hanging 
above the palace, — the one you had made years ago, of such 
pure tone that the maker stood entranced at its first note, but 
which has ever since been still ? Why did you hang it there, 
if it was never to be rung ? " 

" My son, when I was young, and full of life and hope, I 
commanded the best workmen in my kingdom to make a 
perfect silver bell, and hang it above my palace, that its 
sweet tones might tell my people that their king was per- 
fectly happy. But alas ! though I expected so much happi- 
ness, the moment has never come when I could say, ' Ring 
the bell! 'and now I am dying, and it is still silent. My 
son, if your happiness is ever complete, — if you are without 
an anxious thought or wish, — then let the silver bell pro- 
claim the fact to all your people." 

" But, father, if you were not lying here I should be happy 
now, and the bell should ring every day of my life." 

The old king smiled sadly, and, turning his face away, 
soon slept to wake no more. With much mourning he was 
laid away in the royal tomb, and his son became king in his 
stead. He could not ring the bell then, for he grieved for 
his father; but he thought that after a time he should be 
happy again. 

And the days went by, and the young king married a 
beautiful girl; and he said, " Now, for the first time, the bell 
shall ring. ' ' 

But as he and his bride came from the church, a woman, 
young in years, but haggard with grief, carrying a little child 
in her arms, threw herself at his feet, begging him to spare 
the life of her husband, who was condemned to die for plot- 
ting against the king. " He saw so much splendor and 
wealth, and we were starving. Oh, on this day, pardon 
him ! " 

The king raised the wretched woman, and gave her her 
husband's freedom ; but a swift shadow had come over his 
happiness. 



64 TEE READING-CLUB. 

And the months went by, and a beautiful babe was born 
to be king after him. And he said, " Xow at length the bell 
shall ring." But just then came word that a terrible sick- 
ness raged among the children of the kingdom, that many 
mothers were mourners, and their hearts could not be com- 
forted. 

And the years rolled by, and the king was a great and 
good man, kind to his people, sharing their sorrows, and, so 
far as he could, lifting their burdens. The days were so full 
of thought and work, that he did not think of 'the bell, or of 
his own happiness. 

At last he too lay dying ; and when he knew that the end 
was drawing near, he asked to be carried to the room of state, 
and to be placed once more upon his throne, that his people 
might come to see him. And they crowded in, rich and 
poor, high and low, kissing his hands, his feet, and even the 
hem of his garment. And when he saw them so grief-strick- 
en and tearful, a great light came into his dim eyes ; and, lift- 
ing his- trembling arms, in a clear voice he cried, " Ring the 
silver bell ! ring the bell ! My people love me ; at last I am 
happy ! " And as, for the first time, the bell pealed forth its 
ringing notes, his spirit took its flight to the unseen land. 
— Mrs. Julia D. Pratt, in The Dayspring. 



COUNTING EGGS. 

Old Moses, who sells eggs and chickens on the streets of 
Austin for a living, is as honest an old negro as ever lived ; 
but he has got the habit of chatting familiarly with his cus- 
tomers, hence he frequently makes mistakes in counting out 
the eggs they buy. He carries his wares around in a small 
cart drawn by a diminutive donkey. He stopped in front of 
the residence of Mrs. Samuel Burton. The old lady herself 
came out to the gate to make the purchases. 

" Have you got any eggs this morning, Uncle Moses? " 
she asked. 

" Yes, indeed I has. Jess got in ten dozen from de 
kentry." 

" Are they fresh? " 

" Fresh ? yas, indeed ! I guantees 'em, an' — an' — de 
hen guantees 'em." 



THE READING-CLUB. 65 

" I'll take nine dozen. You can just count them into this 
basket." 

" All right, mum ; " he counts, " one, two, free, foah, five, 
six, seben, eight, nine, ten. — You can rely on dem bein' 
fresh. How's your son comin' on de school? He must be 
mos' grown." 

" Yes, Uncle Moses : he is a clerk in a bank in Galveston." 

" Why, how ole am de boy ? " 

" He is eighteen." 

" You don't tole me so ! Eighteen, and getting a salary 
already. — Eighteen (counting), nineteen, twenty, twenty- 
one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-foah, twenty-five. — 
And how's your gal comin' on? She was most growed up 
de last time I seed her." 

" She is married, and living in Dallas." 

" Wall, I declar', how de time scoots away ! And you say 
she has childruns? Why, how ole am de gal? She must 
be jest about " — 

"Thirty-three." 

" Am dat so ? " (counting) " firty-free, firty-foah, firty-five, 
firty-six, firty-seven, firty-eight, firty-nine, forty, forty-one, 
forty-two, forty-free. — Hit am singular dat you has sich 
ole childruns. You don't look more den forty years old 
yerseff." 

" Nonsense, old man ; I see you want to flatter me. When 
a person gets to be fift}--three years old " — 

"Fifty-free! I jess dun gwinter bleeve hit; fifty-free, 
fifty-foah, fifty-five, fifty-six, — I want you to pa}- 'tenshim 
when I count de eggs, so dar'll be no mistake, — fifty-nine, 
sixty, sixty-one, sixty-two, sixty -free, sixty-foah. — Whew ! 
Dat am a warm day. Dis am de time ob year when I feels 
I'se gettin' ole myself. I ain't long for dis world. You 
comes from an ole family. When yore fodder died he was 
sebenty years ole." 

" Seventy-two." 

" Oat's old, suah. — Seben ty-two, sebenty-free, sebenty- 
foah, sebenty-five, sebenty-six, sebenty-seben, sebenty-eight, 
sebenty-eight. sebenty-nine. — And your mudder ? She was 
one ob de noblest lookin' ladies I ebber see. You remind 
me ob her so much! She libed to mos' a hundred. I 
bleeves she was done past a centurion when she died." 

" No, Uncle Moses : she was only ninety-six when she 
died." 



66 THE READING-CLUB. 

" Den she wan't no chicken when she died, I know dat. — 
Ninety-six, ninety-seben, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hun- 
dred, one, two, free, foah, five, five, six, seben, eight, — dar 
one hundred and eight nice fresh eggs, — jess nine dozen, 
and here am one moah egg in case I have discounted myse'f." 

Old Mose went on his way rejoicing. A few days after- 
ward Mrs. Barton said to her husband, 

" I am afraid we will have to discharge Matilda. I am 
satisfied that she steals the milk and eggs. I am positive 
about the eggs, for I bought them day before yesterday, and 
now about half of them are gone. I stood right there, and 
heard old Moses count them myself, and there were nine 
dozen." — Texas Sif tings. 



THE FALL. 

" Down, down, down, ten thousand fathoms deep." — Count Fathom. 

Who does not know that dreadful gulf, where Niagara falls, 
Where eagle unto eagle screams, to vulture vulture calls; 
Where down beneath, despair and death in liquid darkness 

grope, 
And upward on the foam there shines a rainbow without 

hope ? 
While, hung with clouds of fear and doubt, the unreturning 

wave 
Suddenly gives an awful plunge, like life into the grave ; 
And many a hapless mortal there hath dived to vale or bliss ; 
One — only one — hath ever lived to rise from that abyss ! 

heaven ! it turns me now to ice with chill of fear extreme, 
To think of my frail bark adrift on that tumultuous stream ! 
In vain, with desperate sinews, strung by love of life and 

light, 

1 urged that coffin, my canoe, against the current's might ; 
On — on — still on — direct for doom, the river rushed in 

force, 
And fearfully the stream of time raced with it in its course. 
My eyes I closed ; I dared not look the way towards the goal ; 
But still I viewed the horrid close, and dreamt it in my soul. 
Plainly, as through transparent lids, I saw the fleeting shore, 
And lofty trees, like winged things, flit by fore verm ore ! 



THE READING-CLUB. 67 

Plainly — but with no prophet sense — I heard the sullen 

sound, 
The torrent's voice — and felt the mist, like death-sweat, 

gathering round. 

agony ! O life ! My home, and those that made it sweet ! 
Ere I could pray, the torrent lay beneath my very feet. 
With frightful whirl, more swift than thought, I passed the 

dizzy edge ; 
Bound after bound, with hideous bruise, I dashed from ledge 

to ledge, 
From crag to crag — in speechless pain — from midnight 

deep to deep ; 

1 did not die, but anguish stunned my senses into sleep. 

How long entranced, or whither dived, no clew I have to 

find. 
At last the gradual light of life came dawning o'er my mind ; 
And through my brain there thrilled a cry, — a cry as shrill 

as birds 
Of vulture or of eagle kind, but this was set to words : — 
" It's Edgar Huntley in his cap and nightgown, I declares ! 
He's been a-walking in his sleep, and pitched all down the 

stairs ! " Thomas Hood. 



A CENTRE-BOARD YACHT-RACE. 

"Mr. Bingham," said the "city editor" of the "Royal 
Bugle " one morning, " the ' sporting editor ' is away, and it 
will be necessary for you to go down to Swampscott to .report 
a race between centre-board yachts." 

" But I don't know any thing about yachts or yacht- 
racing." 

"It's not necessary to know. See the head man, and get 
the time. That's about all we want." 

About nine o'clock that night, a forlorn, tramp-like look- 
ing object entered the office of the " Royal Bugle," with the 
crown of his white Derby knocked in, the rim bent, and 
his clothing generally hanging limp, — the suit, once light 
in color, now spotted and stained. As he advanced into a 
better light, he was recognized as the " fire reporter ; " and a 
chorus of exclamations followed: "Where's the fire?" or, 



68 THE READI_NG-CLUB. 

" Did they put the hose on you ? " as the unfortunate man 
sank, apparently exhausted, into a chair. 

" It's not a fire," he growled. " It's a yacht-race." 

" What did they do to you? " 

" Do to me? They did every thing except drown me, and 
almost did that. This morning," continued the dejected 
man, " our local editor sent me down to Swampscott to re- 
port a centre-board yacht race. He said if I could get 
aboard one of the racing yachts I'd have a delightful time, 
— a regular marine picnic. Well, I had it, — yes, indeedy ; 
enough picnic of the kind to last the rest of life. I knew 
the yachtsmen were spruce sort of fellows, dressed well ; and 
therefore I put on my best suit, — new rig just from the tail- 
or's, — and hurried away to the Swampscott sands. I found 
the fleet of centre-boards tied up to a wharf. In making in- 
quiries of a captain, I hinted that it would be agreeable to 
me to be a passenger on his yacht. 

" He smiled serenely, the villain ! and said he'd be delight- 
ed to have me come aboard. Oh, the baseness of the man! 
Very soon the race began ; and when fairly under way, and 
I had settled into a comfortable seat to enjoy it, the captain 
shouted, ' All clown, down below the' — the — what do you 
call the rail that runs around the top of the boat? — the 
gun — the gun " — 

« Whale ! " 

" Yes, the gunwhale. Well, he said we must keep our 
heads below that, in order to offer less resistance to the 
wind. Therefore three of us were obliged to lie on our 
stomachs on the bottom of the boat. If we wanted to see 
the race, we looked through the skipper's windows " — 

" The what ? " 

" Why, the skipper's holes, as they call them, — a nautical 
term for windows, I sup " — 

" Scupper-holes ! " 

" Well, yes, that sounds more like. The man who lay next 
to me kept himself busy and contented by eating peanuts. 
But that was nothing, comparatively. Soon we ran into a 
big wave. If the skipper'd had any sense of honor or regard 
for his passengers, he would have turned one side to let the 
wave pass ; but he didn't. He ran slap into it, and the crest 
of it came on board, caromed on the skipper himself, who 
stood at the helm, and then circulated among the shifting 
ballast. Owing to the peanut-eater, the skipper-win — no, 



TEE READING-CLUB. 69 

the scupper-holes — were clogged ; and the remnant of the 
wave, unable to escape from the boat, was absorbed by our 
clothing, and my new suit began to take additional shades 
and wrinkles. 

" Suddenly that graceless captain shouted something about 
' hard lee,' and then the boat lurched and tipped the other 
way ; and we, lying prostrate, were ordered to creep careful- 
ly around the centre-board, and lie on the other side. That 
was the most fiendish ! If my memory be good, we crawled 
back and forth around that centre-board a dozen times. If 
we were going to win the race, why didn't we keep straight 
on, and not turn to the right or left every twenty minutes ? 

" But the climax came. The skipper decided to turn 
the boat around when she was going at full speed, and to 
drive her in the opposite direction. Well, when she turned 
around " — 

" Jibed, you mean." 

"Yes, that sounds like it. When she jibed she turned 
over on her side, and a part of the shifting ballast, another 
man, and myself, went overboard; but we caught on the 
gunwhale, and, the boat coming down flat again, we crawled 
in. When I, forlorn and dripping, asked if they turned 
around usually in that way, they laughed. 

" Well, about an hour afterward, after mopping the bot- 
tom of the boat some more with our clothing, we reached 
the landing from which w 7 e had departed. 

" We did not win. 

" In response to an inquiry in regard to our defeat, the 
captain, ungrateful, said that he had too much ballast. 
Wasn't that the refinement of cruelty? Wasn't it a das- 
tardly insult ? After I'd spoiled a suit of clothes by exert- 
ing myself in his behalf in climbing around that centre- 
board, and nearly lost my life, — of course, if I had not 
caught the side of the boat when I went overboard, they 
would not stop to take me in, because the race was very 
important, and the prize was a three-cornered blue flag, — 
after all that, I say, 'twas rascally to hint that I'd lost the 
race for him. 

" When the boat was a safe distance from the shore, after 
leaving me on the wharf, the captain cried, ' Had a good 
time? ' Gentlemen, to reply would have been an indignity 
to myself ; but I indulged in a little pantomime to show the 
pirate skipper that, if I'd had him there, I'd injure the wharf 



70 THE READING-CLUB. 

with him. ' Why didn't I come home sooner ? ' Because I 
waited the coming of night to shield me from the gaze of 
the village constable, who has a personal enmity against 
tramps, — makes them saw wood. I knew that my tattered 
and begrimed appearance would bring me under the ban of 
the law. I walked home by way of the beach." 

George A. Stockwell. 



THE MISSISSIPPI MIRACLE. 

I's let up on preachin'. I's truly 

De Rev'rind Dick Wilkins, D.D. ; 
I know I heerd Gabr'el a-callin', 

An' thought he was callin' on me : 
" You Wilkins, go preach me de gospel ! " 

Dat, sah, was de way dat he went; 
But now, sah, I's mightily jubous 

'Twas some oder Wilkins he meant. 

Yes, sah, dat ar matter you knows of 

Has cleaned me plumb out of my grace. 
What! ain't nebber heard of it? Nebbah? 

Seed nobody in from de place ? 
Den set down an' listen; and when, sah, 

I's tol' you de mizable tale, 
You'll 'low dat religion, out ou' way, 

Is mighty low down in de scale. 

I started to work wid good prospects : 

My field, you mought call it, was good ; 
I tried fur to keep up de fences, 

An' worked it de best 'at I could ; 
De site wuzn't much fur to brag on ; 

'Twas mos'ly clay gullies an' sand ; 
But de craps, in de way ob collections, 

Wuz good fur dat 'scription ob land. 

Well, sah, we got up a revival, 

To last a consid'able while, 
An' 'greed, as we's gwine fur to hab it, 

'Twas best fur to hab it in style. 



THE READING-CLUB. 71 

We started her goin' at sun-up, 

An' kep' her a-bilin' till night, 
When forty-odd mo'nahs wuz shoutin', 

An' forty more cornin' in sight. 

Des den it come into my min', sah, 

To gib dem ar niggahs a trile ; 
An' so I riz up, an' I says, sah, — 

I says, with a beautiful smile : 
" My Men's, I'm a-gwine to propose you 

A small, onsignincant test, 
To proobe — out ob all ob de virtues — 

Which ob you has charity best. 

" Now, hush up a minnit ! I'll tell you, 

An' den you kin go on an' shout. 
De short ob de mattah is : Friday 

My barrel ob whiskey gub out; 
It happens, too, des at dis moment, 

I hasn't de money to buy : 
An' so I proposes to you all, 

Dat you shill make up de supply. 

" To-morrow I'll hab me a barrel * 

A-settin' out dar on the bluff, 
An' eb'ry good Christian's expected 

To fotch 'long a pint o' good stuff. 
So I'll git my barrel ob wdiiskey, 

An you'll git the feeling dat you 
Is got charity down till you're ek:al 

To gibbin' de debbil his due." 



Nes' mohnin', sah, dar wuz de barrel; 

An' eb'ry man fotched up a flask, 
An' put de neck down in de bunghole, 

An' emptied it into de cask. 
I thought 'at I'd try how it swallowed, 

An' held a gourd under the spout, 
An' den gib a turn on de fossit — 

When nuffin but water come out ! 



72 THE READING-CLUB. 

"A miracle ! " shouted de sistahs. 

" A miracle nuffin ! " says I ; 
" I see froo de mattah, — it's easy 

To tell you des how it come by : 
Each man fotched a bottle ob water, 

An' thought, when de cask wuz complete, 
By eVry one else bringin' whiskey, 

Nobody would notice de cheat." 

Dat sort o' broke up the revival — 

An' raly I think it wuz time, 
Wid all de head brudders convicted 

Ob such a contemptible crime. 
Dey isn't no good in purfeshins ; 

Dat's one thing I hope 'at you sees — 
But, sah, it's so late I mus' leab you 

To pick out what moral you please. 

Irwin Russell. 



WENDELL PHILLIPS. 

What shall we mourn ? For the prostrate tree that shel- 
tered the young green wood? 

For the fallen cliff that fronted the sea, and guarded the 
fields from the flood ? 

For the eagle that died in the tempest, afar from its eyry's 
brood ? 

Nay, not for these shall we weep ; for the silver cord must 

be worn, 
And the golden fillet shrink back at last, and the dust to its 

earth return ; 
And tears are never for those who die with their face to 

the dmVy done : 
But we mourn for the fledglings left on the waste, and the 

fields where the wild waves run. 

From the midst of the flock he defended, the brave one has 

gone to his rest; 
And the tears of the poor he befriended their wealth of 

affection attest. 



THE READING-CLUB. 73 

From the midst of the people is stricken a symbol they daily 

saw, 
Set over against the law-book, of a higher than human law ; 
For his life was a ceaseless protest, and his voice was a 

prophet's cry 
To be true to the truth, and faithful, though the world were 

arrayed for the lie. 

From the hearing of those who hated, a threatening voice 

has passed; 
But the lives of those who believe and die are not blown like 

a leaf on the blast. 
A sower of infinite seed was he, a woodman that hewed to 

the light, 
Who dared to be traitor to Union when Union was traitor 

to right. 

" Fanatic! " the insects hissed, till he taught them to under- 
stand 

That the highest crime may be written in the highest law of 
the land. 

"Disturber," and "dreamer," the Philistines cried, when he 
preached an ideal creed, 

Till they learned that the men who have changed the world 
with the world have disagreed; 

That the remnant is right, when the masses are led like 
sheep to the pen ; 

For the instinct of equity slumbers till roused by instinctive 
men. 

It is not enough to win rights from a king, and write them 
down in a book : 

New men, new lights; and the fathers' code the sons may 
never brook. 

What is liberty now were license then ; their freedom our 
yoke would be ; 

And each new decade must have new men to determine its 
liberty. 

Mankind is a marching" army, with a broadening front the 
while. 

Shall it crowd its bulk on the farm-paths, or clear to the out- 
ward file ? 



74 THE READING-CLUB. 

Its pioneers are the dreamers who heed neither tongue nor 

pen 
Of the human spiders whose silk is wove from the lives of 

toiling men. 

Come, brothers, here to the burial ! But weep not, rather 
rejoice 

For his fearless life and his fearless death ; for his true, un- 
equalled voice, 

Like a silver trumpet sounding the note of human right; 

For his brave heart always ready to enter the weak ones' 
fight, 

For his soul unmoved by the mob's wild shout or the social 
sneer's disgrace, 

For his freeborn spirit, that drew no line between class or 
creed or race. 

Come, workers ! here was a teacher, and the lesson he taught 
was good : 

There are no classes or races, but one human brotherhood ; 

There are no creeds to be outlawed, no colors of skin de- 
barred ; 

Mankind is one in its rights and wrongs, — one right, one 
hope, one guard. 

By his life he taught, by his death we learn the great re- 
former's creed : 

The right to be free, and the hope to be just, and the guard 
against selfish greed. 

And richest of all are the unseen wreaths on his coffin-lid 
laid down 

By the toil-stained hands of workmen, — their sobs, their 
t kiss, and their crown. John Boyle O'Reilly. 



MALARIA. 



Our baby lay in its mother's arms, 
All sweet with its tiny dimpled charms ; 
But little mouth and tongue wercsore, 
And of its food 'twould take no more. 
The doctor hemmed, and shook his head. 
And looking wise, he gravely said, 



THE READING-CLUB. 75 

" Malaria — 'tis plainly seen — 
Three times a day give him quinine. " 
Said grandmamma, " Dear me ! that's new; 
When I was young we called it ' sprue.' " 

Our urchin Tom, ne'er off his feet, 
One day his dinner could not eat ; 
His head ached so, he was so ill, 
Poor mother's heart with fear did fill. 
The doctor felt his hands and head, 
And looking wise, he gravely said, 
" Malaria — 'tis plainly seen — 
Three times a day give him quinine." 
Said grandmamma, "That can't be so! 
He has been smoking, sir, I know.". 

Our lady Maud, at seventeen — 

As bright a girl as e'er was seen — 

One day turned languid, white, and frail, 

And roses red did strangely pale. 

The doctor felt her pulse, and said, 

While wisely he did shake his head, 

" Malaria — it's plainly seen — 

Three times a day give her quinine." 

Said grandmamma, " That can't be right ! 

Why, my good sir, she danced all night." 

Our pride, our eldest, Harry dear, 

One night did act so strange and queer, 

That mother, frightened, panting, said, 

" Run for the doctor ! he'll be dead ! " 

The doctor came, and shook his head, 

And, looking at him, grandly said, 

" Malaria — 'tis plainly seen — 

Three times a day give him quinine." 

" What stuff ! " said grandmamma, " I'm thinking 

That good-for-nothing boy's been drinking ! " 

The head of the house, forever well, 
One day fell ill, and, sad to tell, 
Could not arise, but loud did cry, 
" If this keeps on, I'd rather die ! " 



76 THE READING-CLUB. 

The doctor came, stood by the bed, 
And, looking- solemn, gravely said, 
" Malaria — 'tis plainly seen — 
Three times a day give him quinine." 
Growled grandmamma, " Oh] fiddle-dee-dee ! 
He's only bilious — seems to me." 

One day our grandpa — eighty-four — 

Complained that he could see no more ; 

That, at his age, it worried him 

That his good eyesight should grow dim. 

" I've often seen it act that way," 

The doctor solemnly did say : 

"Malaria — 'tis plainly seen — 

Three times a day give him quinine.". 

But grandma said, " I never see ! 

Old man, you're growing old, like me ! " 



PUZZLED. 

You ask me whether I'm High Church, 

You ask me whether I'm Low : 
I wish you'd tell the difference, 

For I'm sure that / don't know. 
I'm just a plain old body, 

And my brain works pretty slow; 
So I don't know whether I'm High Chureh, 

And I don't know whether I'm Low. 

I'm trying to be a Christian, 

In the plain, old-fashioned way, 
Laid down in my mother's Bible, 

And I read it every day, — 
Our blessed Lord's life in the Gospels, 

Or a comforting Psalm of old, 
Or a bit from the Revelation 

Of the city whose streets are gold. 

Then I pray, — why, I'm generally praying, 
Though I don't always kneel or speak out, 

But I ask the dear Lord, and keep asking, 
Till I fear he is all tired out; 






THE READING-CLUB. 77 

A piece of the Litany sometimes, 

The Collect, perhaps, for the day, 
Or a scrap of a prayer that my mother 

So long ago learned me to say. 



But now my poor memory's failing, 

And often and often I find 
That never a prayer from the Prayer-book 

Will seem to come into my mind. 
But I know what I want, and I ask it, 

And I make up the words as I go : 
Do you think that shows I ain't High Church? 

Do you think that it means I am Low? 

My blessed old husband has left me, 

'Tis years since God took him away : 
I know he is safe, well, and happy, 

And yet, when I kneel down to pray, 
Perhaps it is wrong, but I never 

Leave the old man's name out of my prayer, 
But I ask the dear Lord to do for him 

What / would do if I was there. 



Of course he can do it much better ; 

But he knows, and he surely won't mind 
The worry about her old husband, 

Of the old woman left here behind. 
So I pray and I pray for the old man, 

And I'm sure that I shall till I die ; 
So maybe that proves I ain't Low Church, 

And maybe it shows I am High. 



My old father was never a Churchman, 

But a Scotch Presbyterian saint : 
Still his white head is shining in heaven, 

I don't care who says that it ain't ; 
To one of our blessed Lord's mansions 

That old man was certain to go : 
And now do you think I am High Church ? 

Are you sure that I ain't pretty Low? 



78 THE READING-CLUB. 

I tell you, it's all just a muddle, 

Too much for a body like me ; 
I'll wait till I join my old husband, 

And then we shall see what we'll see. 
Don't ask me again, if you please, sir, 

For really it worries me so ; 
And I don't know whether I'm High Church, 

And I don't know whether I'm Low. 



THE BOOK CANVASSER. 

He came into my office with a portfolio under his arm. 
Placing it upon the table, removing a ruined hat, and wip- 
ing his nose upon a ragged handkerchief that had been so 
long out of the wash that it was positively gloomy, he said, — 

" Mr. , I'm canvassing for the National Portrait Gal- 
lery ; very valuable work ; comes in numbers, fifty cents 
apiece ; contains pictures of all the great American heroes 
from the earliest times down to the present day. Everybody 
subscribing for it, and I want to see if I can't take your 
name. 

" Now, just cast your eyes over that," he said, opening his 
book and pointing to an engraving. "That's — lemme see 
— yes, that's Columbus, perhaps you've heard sumfin' about 
him. The publisher was telling me to-day, before I started 
out, that he discovered — No ; was it Columbus that dis — 
Oh, yes, Columbus, he discovered America — was the first 
man here. He came over in a ship, the publisher said, and 
it took fire, and he staid on deck because his father told 
him to, if I remember right, and when the old thing busted 
to pieces he was killed. Handsome picture, ain't it ? Taken 
from a photograph, all of 'em are ; done especially for this 
work. His clothes are kinder odd, but they say that's the 
way they dressed in them days. 

" Look at this one. Now, isn't that splendid ? That's 
William Penn, one of the early settlers. I was reading 
t'other day about him. When he first arrived, he got a lot 
of Indians up a tree, and, when they shook some apples 
down, he set one on top of his son's head, and shot an arrow 
plump through it and never grazed him. They say its truck 
them Indians cold; he was such a terrific shooter. Fine 



TEE READING-CLUB. 79 

countenance, hasn't he ? Face shaved clean ; he didn't wear 
a mustache, I believe, but he seems to have let himself out 
on hair. Now, my view is, that every man ought to have a 
picture of that patriarch so's to see how the fust settlers 
looked, and what kind of weskets they used to wear. See 
his legs too. Trousers a little short, maybe, as if he was 
going to wade in a creek, but he's all there. Got some kind 
of a paper in his*. hand, I see. Subscription-list, I reckon. 
Now, how does that strike you? 

"There's something nice. That, I think, is — is — that 
— a — a — yes, to be sure, Washington, — you recollect him, 
of course. Some people call him Father of his Country; 
George — Washington. Had no middle name, I believe. 
He lived about two hundred years ago, and he was a fighter. 
I heard the publisher telling a man about him crossing the 
Delaware River up yer at Trenton ; and seems to me, if I 
recollect right, I've read about it myself. He was courting 
some girl on the Jersey side, and he used to swim over at 
nights to see her, when the old man was asleep. The girl's 
family were down on him, I reckon. He looks like a man 
to do that, don't he? He's got it in his eye. If it'd been 
me, I'd gone over on a bridge ; but he probably wanted to 
show off afore her, — some men are so reckless, you know. 
Now, if you'll conclude to take this, I'll get the publisher to 
write out some more stories, and bring 'em round to you, so's 
you can study up on him. I know he did ever so many other 
things ; but I've forgot 'em, my memory's so awful poor. 

" Less see ! Who have we next ? Ah, Franklin ! Benja- 
min Franklin! He was one of the old original pioneers, I 
think. I disremember exactly what he is celebrated for, but 
I think it was a — flying a — oh ! yes, flying a kite, that's it. 
The publisher mentioned it. He was out one day flying a 
kite, you know, like boys do nowadays, and while she was 
a-flickering up in the sky, and he was giving her more string, 
an apple fell off a tree, and hit him on the head ; then he 
discovered the attraction of gravitation, I think they call it. 
Smart, wasn't it ? Now, if you or me'd 'a' been hit, it'd just 
'a' made us mad, like as not, and set us a-ravin'. But men 
are so different ! One man's meat's another man's pison. 
See what a double chin he's got. No beard on him, either, 
though a goatee would have been becoming to such a round 
face. He hasn't got on a sword, and I reckon he was no 
soldier ; fit some when he was a boy, maybe, or went out 



80 THE READING-CLUB. 

with the home-guard, but not a regular warrior. I ain't one 
myself, and I think all the better of him for it. 

" Ah, here we are ! Look at that. Smith and Pocahon- 
tas ! John Smith! Isn't that gorgeous? See how she 
kneels over him, and sticks out her hands while he lays on 
the ground, and that big fellow with a club tries to hammer 
him up! Talk about woman's love! There it is for you! 
Modocs, I believe. Anyway, some Indians out West there, 
somewheres; and the publisher tells me that Captain Shacka- 
nasty, or whatever his name is there, w T as going to bang old 
Smith over the head with a log of wood, and this here girl 
she was sweet on Smith, it appears, and she broke loose, and 
jumped forward, and says to the man with a stick, ' Why 
don't you let John alone? Me and him are going to marry, 
and if you kill him I'll never speak to you as long as I live,' 
or words like them ; and so the man he give it up, and both 
of them hunted up a preacher, and were married, and lived 
happy ever afterward. Beautiful story, isn't it? A good 
wife she made him, too, I'll bet, if she was a little copper- 
colored. And don't she look just lovely in that picture? 
But Smith appears kinder sick, evidently thinks his goose 
is cooked ; and I don't wonder, with that Modoc swooping 
down on him with such a discouraging club. 

" And now we come to — to — ah — to — Putnam — Gen- 
eral Putnam : he fought in the war, too ; and one day a lot 
of 'em caught him when he was off: his guard, and they tied 
him flat on his back on a horse, and then licked the horse 
like the very mischief. And what does that horse do but go 
pitching down about four hundred stone steps in front of the 
house, with General Putnam lying there nearly skeered to 
death ! Leastways the publisher said somehow that way, 
and I once read about it myself. But he came out safe, and 
I reckon sold the horse, and made a pretty good thing of it. 
What surprises me is, he didn't break his neck ; but maybe it 
was a mule, for they're pretty sure-footed, you know. Sur- 
prising what some of these men have gone through, ain't it? 

" Turn over a couple of leaves. That's General Jackson. 
My father shook hands with him once. He was a fighter, I 
know. He fit down in New Orleans. Broke up the rebel 
legislature, and then, when the Ku Kluxes got after him, 
he fought 'em behind cotton breastworks, and licked 'em till 
they couldn't stand. They say he was terrific when he got 
real mad, — hit straight from the shoulder, and fetched his 



THE READING-CLUB. 81 

man every time. Andrew, his fust name was; and look how 
his hair stands up. 

" And then, here's John Adams, and Daniel Boone, and 
two or three pirates, and a whole lot more pictures, so you 
see it's cheap as dirt. Lemme have your name, won't you?" 



THE ENGINEER'S STORY. 

Han'som, stranger? Yes, she's purty, an' ez peart ez she 

kin be. 
Clever? Wy, she ain't no chicken, but she's good enough 

fur me. 
What's her name? 'Tis kind o' common, yit I ain't ashamed 

to tell, 
She's ole " Fiddler " Filkin's daughter, and her dad he calls 

her "Nell." 

I wuz drivin' on the Central jist about a year ago, 
On the run from Winnemucca up to Keno in Washoe. 
There's no end o' skeery places. 'Tain't a road fur one who 

dreams, 
With its curves an' awful tres'les over rocks an' mountain 

streams. 

'Twuz an afternoon in August ; we hed got behind an hour, 
An' wuz tearin' up the mountain like a summer thunder- 
shower, 
Round the bends an' by the ledges 'bout ez fast ez we could 

W ith the mountain-peaks above us an' the river down below. 

Ez we come nigh to a tres'le cros't a holler, deep an' wild, 
Suddenly I saw a baby, — 'twuz the station-keeper's child, — 
Toddlin' right along the timbers with a bold an' fearless 

tvead, 
Right afoi'3 the locomotive, not a hundred rods ahead. 

I jist jumped, an' grabbed the throttle, an' I fa'rly held my 

breath, 
Fur I felt I couldn't stop her till the child was crushed to 

death, 



82 THE READING-CLUB. 

When a woman sprang afore me like a sudden streak o' light, 
Caught the boy, an' twixt the timbers in a second sank from 

sight. 

I jist whis'l'd all the brakes on. An' we worked with might 

an' main, 
Till the fire flew from the drivers, but we couldn't stop the 

train, 
An' it rumbled on above her. How she screamed ez we 

rolled by ! 
An' the river roared below us, — I shell hear her till I die. 

Then we stopped ; the sun wuz shinin' ; I ran back along the 

ridge, 
An' I found her — dead ? No, livin' ! She wuz hangin' to 

the bridge, 
Where she dropped down through the cross-ties with one arm 

about a sill, 
An' the other round the baby, who wuz yellin' fur to kill. 

So we saved 'em. She wuz gritty. She's ez peart ez she 

kin be; 
Now we're married ; she's no chicken, but she's good enough 

for me. 
An' ef eny ask who owns her, w'y ! I ain't ashamed to tell — 
She's my wife. Ther' ain't none better than ole Filkin's 

daughter Nell. Eugene J. Hall. 



THE COMING WAVE. 

Dipper Bay was a little inlet, almost land-locked, in which 
the water was deep enough to float his sloop at this time of 
tide, and its high rocky shores would afford him a perfect 
protection from the fury of any squall, or even hurricane. 
But Leopold felt that his chances of reaching this secure 
haven were but small, for the breeze was very light. 

The sloop " Rosabel " was but a short distance from the shore 
when the wind entirely subsided, and the long rollers were 
as smooth as glass. The lightning glared with fearful in- 
tensity, and the thunder boomed like the convulsions of an 
earthquake. By this time Rosabel [for whom the sloop had 



THE READING-CLUB. 83 

been named], who had before enjoyed the sublimity of the 
coming storm, now began to realize its terrors, and to watch 
the handsome boatman with the deepest anxiety. The sails 
flapped idly in the motionless air, and Dipper Bay was still 
half a mile distant. 

" Don't be alarmed, Miss Hamilton," said Leopold. "If 
the squall will keep off only a few moments, we shall be in 
a safe place." 

The skipper evidently " meant business ; " and, shipping 
the long oars, he worked with a zeal which seemed to promise 
happy results, and Rosabel began to feel a little re-assured. 
But the sloop was too large, and too broad on the beam, to be 
easily rowed, and her progress was necessarily very slow. 

"Can't I help you, Leopold?" asked the maiden, when 
she saw what a tremendous effort the boatman was making. 

" You may take the tiller, and steer for Dip Point, if you 
please," replied Leopold, knowing that his beautiful passen- 
ger would be better satisfied if she could feel that she was 
doing something. 

Leopold plied his oars with all the vigor of a manly frame, 
intent upon reaching the little bay, where the high rocks 
would shelter his craft from the fury of the storm. Then 
a breeze of wind came, and he resumed his place at the tiller. 
He had almost reached the haven when he saw coming down 
over the waters a most terrific squall. Before he could haul 
down his mainsail, the tempest struck the " Rosabel." He 
placed his fair charge in the bottom of the boat, which the 
savage wind was driving towards the dangerous rocks. 
Before he could do any thing to secure the sail, the main- 
sheet parted at the boom. He cast off the halliards, but the 
sail was jammed and would not come down. 

The " Rosabel " was almost upon the rocks. Seizing an oar, 
Leopold, satisfied that he could do nothing to save the boat, 
worked her away from the rocks, so that she would strike 
upon the narrow beach he had just left. The fierce squall 
was hurling her with mad speed upon the shore. By the 
most tremendous exertion, and at the imminent peril of his 
life, he succeeded in guiding her to the beach, upon which 
she struck with prodigious force, crushing in her keel and 
timbers beneath the shock. Without a word of explanation, 
he grasped the fair Rosabel in his arms, and leaped into the 
angry surges, which were driven high upon the rocks above 
him. The tide had risen so that there was hardly room 



84 THE READING-CLUB. 

under the cliff for him to stand; but he bore her to this only 
partial refuge from the fury of the storm. 

The tempest increased in violence, and the huge billows 
rolled in with impetuous fury upon him. Grasping his fair 
burden in his arms, with Rosabel clinging to him in mortal 
terror, he paused a moment to look at the angry sea. There 
was a narrow shelf of rock near him, against which the 
waves beat with terrible violence. If he could only get 
beyond this shelf, which projected out from the cliffs, he 
could easily reach the Hole in the Wall, where Harvey Barth 
had saved himself in just such a storm. He had born Rosa- 
bel some distance along the beach, both drenched by the 
lashing spray, and his strength was nearly exhausted. The 
projecting shelf was before him, forbidding for the moment 
his further progress. 

Placing his left foot on a rock, his fair but heavy burden 
on his knee, clasping her waist with his left hand, while his 
right was fastened for support in a crevice of the cliff, he 
paused for an instant to recover his breath and watch for a 
favorable chance to escape from his perilous position. Rosa- 
bel, in her terror, had thrown her arms around his neck, 
clinging to him with all her might. When he paused, she 
felt, reposing on his powerful muscles, that she was safe — 
she confessed it afterwards ; though, in that terrible sea and 
near those cruel rocks, the strength of the strongest man was 
but weakness. Leopold waited. If the sea would only re- 
cede for an instant, it would give him the opportunity to 
reach the broader beach beyond the shelf, over which he 
could pass to the Hole in the Wall. It was a moment of 
hope, mingled with a mighty fear. 

A huge billow, larger than any he had yet seen, was rolling 
in upon him, crested and reeking with foam, and might 
dash him and his feeble charge, mangled and torn, upon the 
jagged rocks. Still panting from the violence of his exer- 
tion, he braced his nerves and his stout frame to meet the 
terrible shock. 

With every muscle strained to the utmost tension, he 
waited the coming wave. In this attitude, with the helpless 
maiden clinging to him for life, with the wreck of his fine 
yacht near, he was a noble subject for an inspired artist. 

The coming wave, buried him and the fair maiden in its cold 
embrace. It broke, and shattered itself in torrents of milky 
foam upon the hard rocks. But the larger and higher the 



THE READING-CLUB. 85 

wave, the farther it recedes. Leopold stood firm, though he 
was shaken in every fibre of his frame by the shock. The 
retiring water — retiring only for an instant, to come again 
with even greater fury — gave him his opportunity, and he 
improved it. Swooping, like a strong eagle, beneath the 
narrow shelf of rock, he gained the broader sands beyond 
the reach of the mad billows. It blew a hurricane for some 
time. The stranded yacht was ground into little pieces by 
the sharp rocks, but her skipper and his fair passenger were 
safe. Oliver Optic. 



THE STORY OF SIR ARNULPH. 

[Matt. xxii. 37-39. — " Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy 
heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind. This is the first and 
great commandment. And the second is like unto it, Thou shalt love thy 
neighbor as thyself."] 

Ax earnest man, in long-forgotten years, 
Relieved the maladies and stanched the tears 
Of pining multitudes, who sought his aid 
When death their homesteads threatened to invade. 

Blest with one only son (a gentle youth, 
Trained in the fear of God, and love of truth), 
He fondly hoped that Arnulph might aspire 
Disease and death to baffle, like his sire. 

But the boy, musing gloom ily apart, 

Avowed at length the impulse of his heart : 

" To some calm cloister, father, I would go, 

And there serve God." His father answered, "No. 

" Thou doest well to wish to serve the Lord, 
By thine whole life imperfectly adored ; 
But choose thy work amid the world, and then 
Thou canst serve God, and bless thy fellow-men." 

The boy, still yearning to achieve his. plan, 
Spake : " It were better to serve God than man." 
" Pray God for help," the father said, " and he 
Will solve the riddle of thy doubt to thee." 



86 THE READING-CLUB. 

So Arnulph to his chamber went, and prayed 
That in his doubts the Lord would send him aid. 
And, in a vision of the silent night, 
A phantom stood before him, clothed in white, — 
A form for earth too beautiful and grand, 
With crimson roses blooming in each hand. 

And Arnulph asked the angel, " Are these flowers 
Fresh culled from Eden's amaranthine bowers ? " 
He answered, " Nay : these offerings are from all 
Whom God the doers of his will doth call." 
" And can I offer nothing ? " sighed the boy. 
'" May I not also serve the Lord with joy ? " 
" Surely thou mayest," replied that seraph fair, — 
"In my left hand, behold, thy gift I bear." 

Then Arnulph said, " I pray thee, tell me why, 
In thy left hand the flowers all scentless lie, 
But in the right they breathe a gracious smell, 
Which long within the haunted sense doth dwell ? " 

The angel answered with pathetic tone, — 

" In my left hand I bear the gifts alone 

Of those who worship God the Sire above, 

But for his children testify no love ; 

While these sweet roses, which ne'er grow wan, 

Come from the lovers of both God and man." 

The vision faded. Arnulph cried, " Alas ! 
My soul was blind ! " And so it came to pass, 
That the changed boy a cloister entered not, 
But with God's working-men took part and lot. 

Gerald Massey. 



A LOST CHILD. 

" I'm losted ! Could you find me, please ? " 

Poor little frightened baby ! 
The wind had tossed her golden fleece, 
The stones had scratched her dimpled knees ; 
I stooped, and lifted her with ease, 

And softly whispered, " Maybe." 



THE READING-CLUB. 87 

" Tell me your name, my little maid : 

I can't find you without it." 
" My name is Shiny-eyes," she said. 
" Yes ; but your last name ? " She shook her head : 
" Up to my house 'ey never said 

A single word about it." 

" But, dear," I said, " what is your name ? " 

" Why, didn't you hear me told you? 
Dust Shiny-eyes." A bright thought came : 
" Yes, when you're good. But when they blame 
You, little one, — is it just the same 

When mamma has to scold you? " 

"My mamma never scolds," she moans, 

A little blush ensuing, 
" 'Cept when I've been a-f rowing stones ; 
And then she says [the culprit owns], — 
' Mehitabel Sapphira Jones, 

What has you been a-doing ? ' " 

Anna F. Burnham. 



WHEN MeGUE PUTS THE BABY TO 
SLEEP. 

We have a foine tinement, close be the bridge, 

Wid three pairs of stairs and a farm. 
The farm's on the roof, but it's ilegant just 

For to kape the small childer from harm. 
The railin' is high. Shure it's tired they get 

From playin' "puss corner" an' "peep," 
An' 'twould do your heart good in the twilight to see 

Ould McGue put the baby to sleep. 

McGue is my man, an' a daisy he is, 

For after the gas-house shuts down 
He comes wid his pail (faith, the coal on his face 

Gives the shake to the boys of the town). 
Then he sits down wid me, an' his poipe, an' his chair, 

Comfortable, cosey, an' deep, 
Wid the kid in his arms ; it would break you to see 

Ould McGue put the baby to sleep. 



88 THE READING-CLUB. 

He sings him the chime of " The Old Phwiskey Jug," 

An' juggles him up on his knee 
As light as the mist from ould Erin's green turf 

That floats from the bog to the sea. 
Then the gossoon lies back like a king on his couch, 

An' the shadows across his eyes creep ; 
I'll lay you a bet, it's a beautiful sight, 

When McGue puts the baby to sleep. 

Then the ould man says " Phwist ! " as the first darling 
snore 

He hears from the swate, sleeping child ; 
An' he steps to the cradle, as aisy as mud, 

An' the drop of a pin makes him wild. 
" The Virgin take care of that baby ! " his prayer 

Comes out of the heart low and deep ; 
It would kill the ould man if the kid should refuse 

John McGue for to put him to sleep. 



JEM'S LAST RIDE. 

High o'er the snow-capped peaks of blue the stars are out 

to-night, 
And the silver crescent moon hangs low. I watched it on 

my right, 
Moving above the pine-tops tall, a bright and gentle shape, 
While I listened to the tales you told of peril and escape. 

Then, mingled with your voices low, I heard the rumbling 

sound 
Of wheels aclown the farther slope, that sought the level 

ground ; 
And suddenly, from memories that never can grow dim, 
Flashed out once more the day when last I rode with 

English Jem. 

'Twas here, in wild Montana, I took my hero's gauge. 
From Butte to Deer Lodge, four-in-hand, he drove the 

mountain stage ; 
And many a time, in sun or storm, safe mounted at his 

side, 
I whiled away with pleasant talk the long day's weary ride. 



THE READING-CLUB. 89 

Jem's faithful steeds had served him long, of mettle true 

and tried : 
One sought in vain for trace of blows upon their glossy hide ; 
And to each low command he spoke, the leader's nervous ear 
Bent eager, as a lover waits nis mistress' voice to hear. 

"With ringing crack the leathern whip, that else had idly 

hung, 
Kept time for many a rapid mile to English songs he sung ; 
And yet, despite his smile, he seemed a lonely man to be, 
With not one soul to claim him kin on this side of the sea. 

But after I had known him long, one mellow evening-time 
He told me of his English Eose, who withered in her prime ; 
And how, within the churchyard green, he laid her down to 

rest 
With her sweet babe, a blighted bud, upon her frozen breast. 

"I could not stay," he said, "where she had left me all 

alone ! 
The very hedge-rose that she loved, I could not look upon. 
I could not hear the mavis sing, or see the long grass wave, 
And every little daisy-bank seemed but my darling's grave. 

" Yet somehow — why, I cannot tell — but when I wandered 

here, 
I seemed to bring her with me too, that once had been so 

dear. 
I love these mountain summits, where the world is in the 

sky, 
For she is in it too, — my love ! — and so I brmg her nigh." 

Next week I rode with Jem again. The coach was full, that 

day, 
And there were little children there, that pleased us with 

their play. 
A sweet-faced mother brought her pair of rosy, bright-eyed 

girls, 
And boy like one I left at home, with silken yellow curls. 

We took fresh horses at Girard's, and as he led them out — 
A vicious pair they seemed to me — I heard the hostler 
shout, 



90 THE READING-CLUB. 

" You always want good horses, Jem ! Now you shall have 
your way. 

Try these new beauties, for we sold your old team yester- 
day." 

O'er clean-cut limb and sloping flank, arched neck and toss- 
ing head, 

I marked Jem run his practised eye, though not a word he 
said ; 

Yet, as he clambered to his seat, and took the reins once 
more, 

I saw a look upon his face it had not worn before. 

The hostler open flung the gates. " Now, Tempest, show 
your pace," 

He cried, and with a careless hand he struck the leader's 
face. 

The horse, beneath the sportive blow, reared as if poison- 
stung ; 

And, with his panic-stricken mates, to a mad gallop sprung. 

We thundered through the gate, and out upon the stony 
road ; 

From side to side the great coach lurched, with all its price- 
less load : 

Some cried aloud for help, and some, with terror-frozen 
tongue, 

Clung, bruised and faint in every limb, the weaker to the 
strong. 

And men who oft had looked on death, unblanched, by flood 

or field, 
When every nerve to do and dare by agony was steeled, 
Now moaned aloud, or gnashed their teeth in helpless rage, 
To die, at whim of maddened brutes, like vermin in a cage ! 

Too well, alas ! too well I knew the awful way we went, — ■ 
The little stretch of level road, and then the steep descent ; 
The boiling stream that seethed and roared far down the 

rocky ridge, 
With death, like old Horatius, grim waiting at the bridge ! 



THE READING-CLUB. 91 

But, suddenly, above the din, a voice rang loud and clear ; 
We knew it well, the driver's voice, — without one note of 

fear ; 
Some strong, swift angel's lips might thrill with such a 

clarion cry, — 
The voice of one who put for aye all earthly passion by : — 

" Still ! for your lives, and listen ! See yon farmhouse by 

the way, 
And piled along the field in front the shocks of new-mown 

hay. 
God help me turn my horses there ! And when I give the 

word, 
Leap on the hay ! Pray, every soul, to Him who Israel 

heard ! " 

Within, the coach was still. 'Tis strange, but never till I 

die 
Shall I forget the fields that day, the color of the sky, 
The summer breeze that brought the first sweet perfume of 

the hay, 
The bobolink that in the grass would sing his life away. 

One breathless moment bridged the space that lay between, 

and then 
Jem drew upon the straining reins, with all the strength of 

ten. 
" Hold fast the babes ! " More close I clasped the fair boy 

at my side. 
" Let every nerve be steady now ! " and " Jump for life ! " he 
cried. 

Saved, every soul ! Oh ! dizzy — sweet life rushed in every 

vein, 
To us who from that fragrant bed rose up to "hope again ! 
But, 'mid the smiles and grateful tears that mingled on each 

cheek, 
A sudden questioning horror grew, that none would dare to 

speak. 

Too soon the answer struck our ears ! One moment's hol- 
low roar 
Of flying hoofs upon the bridge — an awful crash that tore 



92 THE READING-CLUB. 

The very air in twain — and then, through all the world 

grown still, 
I only heard the bobolink go singing at his will. 

I was the first man down the cliff. There's little left to tell. 
We found him lying, breathing yet and conscious, where he 

fell. 
The question in his eager eyes, I answered with a word, — 
" Safe ! " Then he smiled, and whispered low some words I 

scarcely heard. 

We would have raised him, but his lips grew white with 

agony. 
" Not yet ; it will be over soon," he whispered. " Wait 

with me ; " 
Then, lower, smiling still, " It is my last ride, friends ; 

but I 
Have done my duty, and God knows I do not fear to die." 

He closed his eyes. We watched his life slip, like an ebbing 

tide, 
Far out upon the infinite, where all our hopes abide. 
He spoke but once again, a name not meant for mortal ears, 
" My Rose ! " She must have heard that call, amid the 

singing spheres ! 

Mary A . P. Stansbury. 



OVER THE CROSSIN'. 

"Shine? shine, sor? Ye see, I'm just a-dien' 
Ter turn yer two boots inter glass 
Where ye'll see all the sights in the winders 
Tthout lookin' up as yer pass. 
Seen me before ? I've no doubt, sor ; 
I'm punctooal haar, yer know, 
Waitin' along the crossin' 
Fur a little un', name o' Joe ; 
My brother, sor, an' a cute un', 
Ba'ly turned seven, an' small, 
But gettin' his livin' grad'ely 
Tendin' a bit uv a stall 



THE READING-CLUB. 93 

Fur Millerkins down the av'nue ; 
Yer kin bet that young un's smart, — 
Worked right in like a vet'run 
Since th' old un' gin 'im a start. 

Folks say he's a picter o' father, 

Once mate o' the ' Lucy Lee ' — 

Lost when Joe wor a baby, 

Way off in some furrin sea. 

Then mother kep' us together, 

Though nobody thought she would, 

An' worked an' slaved an' froze an' starved 

Uz long uz ever she could. 

An' since she died an' left us, 

A couple o' year ago, 

We've kep' right on in Cragg Alley, 

A-housekeepin' — I an' Joe. 

I'd just got my kit when she went, sor, 

An' people helped us a bit, 

So we managed to get on somehow ; 

Joe wus alius a brave little chit; 

An' since he's got inter bisness, 

Though we don't ape princes an' sich, 

Tain't of 'n we git right hungry, ' 

An' we feel pretty tol'able rich. 

I used to wait at the corner, 

Jest over th' other side ; 

But the notion o' bein' tended 

Sort o' ruffled the youngster's pride, 

So now I only watches 

To see that he's safe across ; 

Sometimes it's a bit o' waitin', 

But, bless yer, 'tain't no loss ! 

Look ! there he is now, the rascal ! 

Dodgin' across the street 

Ter s'prise me — an' — look ! I'm goin' — 

He's down by the horses' feet ! " 

Suddenly all had happened, — 
The look, the cry, the spring, 
The shielding Joe as a bird shields 
Its young with sheltering wing ; 



94 THE READING-CLUB. 

Then up the full street of the city 

A pause of the coming rush, 

And through all the din and the tumult 

A painful minute of hush ; 

A tumble of scattered brushes, 

As they lifted him up to the walk, 

A gathering of curious faces, 

And snatches of whispered talk ; 

Little Joe all trembling beside him 

On the flagging, with gentle grace 

Pushing the tangled, soft brown hair 

Away from the still white face. 

At his touch the shut lids lifted, 

And swift over lip and eye 

Came a glow as when the morning 

Flushes the eastern sky ; 

And a hand reached out to his brother, 

As the words came low but clear, — 

" Joe, I reckon ye mind our mother : 

A minute back she wor here, 

Smilin' an' callin' me to her ! 

I tell ye, I'm powerful glad 

Yer such a brave, smart youngster : 

The leavin' yer ain't so bad. 

Hold hard to the right things she learnt us, 

An' alius keep honest an' true ; 

Good-by, Joe — but mind, I'll be watchin' 

Just — over — the crossiu' — fur you ! " 

Springfield Republican. 



SOMEHOW OR OTHER. 

The good wife bustled about the house, 

Her face still bright with a pleasant smile, 
As broken snatches of happy song 

Strengthened her heart and hand the while. 
The good man sat in the chimney-nook, 

His little clay pipe within his lips, 
And all he'd made, and all he'd lost, 

Ready and clear on his finger-tips. 

" Good wife, I've just been thinking a bit : 
Nothing has done very well this year ; 



THE READING-CLUB. 95 

Money is bound to he hard to get ; 

Every thing's bound to be very dear; 
How the cattle are going to be fed, 

How we're to keep the boys at school, 
Is kind of a debit and credit sum 

I can't make balance by any rule." 

She turned her round from the baking bread, 

And she faced him with a cheerful laugh; 
" Why, husband, dear, one would think 

That the good rich wheat was only chaff. 
And what if the wheat was only chaff, 

As long as we both are well and strong? 
I'm not a woman to worry a bit, — 

Somehow or other we get along. 

Into some lives some rain must fall, 

Over all lands the storm must beat ; 
But when the rain and storm are o'er, 

The after sunshine is twice as sweet. 
Through every strait we have found a road, 

In every grief we've found a song; 
We've had to bear, and had to wait, — 

But somehow or other we get along. 

For thirty years we have loved each other, 

Stood by each other whatever befell ; 
Six boys have called us father and mother, 

And all of them living and doing well. 
We owe no man a penny, my dear, 

We're both of us loving, well, and strong : 
Good man, I wish you would smoke again, 

And think how well we've got along." 

He filled his pipe with a pleasant laugh; 

He kissed his wife with a tender pride ; 
He said, " I'll do as you tell me, love ; 

I'll just count up on the other side." 
She left him then with his better thought, 

And lifted her work with a low, sweet song, — 
A song that followed me many a year : 

" Somehow or other we get along." 



96 THE READING-CLUB. 

TATERS. 

(with a chorus.) 

Of all the wonderful works of Nater, 
What surprises me most, she can make a tatert 
She gathers the stuff to produce a skin, 
And then gradually stuffs the tater in. 

Chorus. 

Tater ! tater ! Best bread made by Nater I 
No baker alive could make a tater. 

In Ireland, where earth is so fertile and turfy, 
They mispronounce tater by calling it Murphy. 
In France, where all language to ribbons they tear, 
They nominate tater a pomme de terr&! 

Tater ! tater ! The brown bread of Nater ! 

Old Nick couldn't give a worse nickname for tater. 

Of words that sound proud I was always a hater — 
Per-contra — _per-centum — per-digious — per-tater ! 
All creatures that purr, from a fool to a cat, 
Should be made to eat taters without any fat. 

Tater ! tater ! Good Nater creator ! 

If an angel said per, I belave I should bate her. 

O how shall I praise you ? I don't want to hurt you 
By making you vain and destroying your virtue ; 
But — baked, fried, boiled, roasted, you're equally good, 
And in pigpen or palace alike understood. 

Tater ! tater ! First and best boon of Nater ! 
When I stop being poet, I'd turn to a tater. 

What makes all men kin? It is " one touch of Nater ! " 
And what is that touch, but the touch of a tater ? 
Of all flowers of the field, tater flour I most prize, 
Best bread for the body and meet for the eyes. 



THE READING-CLUB. 97 

Tater ! tater ! Did I wish to beat Nater, 

I'd take you when new, and produce a baked tater ! 

Some scoff at a tater, and don't wish to see un ; 
They say you are vulgar and very plebeian, 
And call you a root ! But their minds are unsound : 
It's your modesty tells you to hide in the ground. 

Tater ! tater ! Many-eyed, potent tater ! 
(King Richard with III. was only Dick-tater.) 

But alas ! you are deaf to my harp's fond endeavor, 
Or I'd sing in this beautiful fashion forever ! 
You have eyes, but you see not ; you're deaf as a drum ; 
And as none else will listen, like you I'll be dumb. 

Tater ! tater ! When I leave mortal Nater, 

Let the world calmly think what I thought of a tater ! 

W. 0. Eaton. 



"AN UNKNOWN MAN, RESPECTABLY 
DRESSED." 

" An unknown man, respectably dressed," 

That was all that the record said : 
Wondering pity might guess the rest ; 

One thing was sure, — the man was dead. 

And dead, because he'd no heart to live ; 

His courage had faltered, and failed the test: 
How little the all we now can give, — 

A nameless sod to cover his breast ! 

" Respectably dressed ! " The thoughtless read 

The sentence over, and idly say, — 
" "What was it, then, since it was not need, 

Which made him thus fling his life away ? " 

"Respectably dressed ! " How little they know, 
Who never have been for money pressed, 

What it costs respectable poor to go, 
Day after day, " respectably dressed ! " 



98 THE READING-CLUB. 

The beggars on sidewalks suffer less ; 

They herd all together, clan and clan ; 
Alike and equal in wretchedness, 

No room for pride between man and man. 

Nothing to lose by rags or by dirt, 

More often something is gained instead; 

Nothing to fear but bodily hurt, 

Nothing to hope for save daily bread. 

But respectable poor have all to lose ; 

For the world to know, means loss and shame ; 
They'd rather die, if they had to choose ; 

They cling as for life to place and name, — 

Cling, and pretend, and conceal and hide; 

Never an hour but its terror bears ; 
Terror which slinks like guilt to one side, 

And often a guiltier countenance wears. 

" Respectably dressed " to the last ; ay, last ! 

Last dollar, last crust, last proud pulse-beat; 
Starved body, starved soul, hope dead and past : 

What wonder that any death looks sweet? 

"An unknown man, respectably dressed," 

That was all that the record said. 
When will the question let us rest, — 

Is it fault of ours that the man was dead ? 

Helen Jackson. 



"BAY BILLY." 

You may talk of horses of renown, 
What Goldsmith Maid has done, 

How Dexter cut the seconds down, 
And Fellowcraft's great run : 

Would you hear about a horse that once 
A mighty battle won ? 



THE READING-CLUB. 

'Twas the last fight at Fredericksburg, — 

Perhaps the day you reck, — 
Our boys, the Twenty-second Maine, 

Kept Early's men in check. 
Just where Wade Hampton boomed away, 

The fight went neck and neck. 

All day we held the weaker wing, 

And held it with a will ; 
Five several stubborn times we charged 

The battery on the hill, 
And five times beaten back, re-formed, 

And kept our columns still. 

At last from out the centre fight 

Spurred up a general's aide ; 
" That battery must silenced be ! " 

He cried as past he sped. 
Our colonel simply touched his cap, 

And then, with measured tread, — 

To lead the crouching line once more 

The grand old fellow came ; 
No wounded man but raised his head, 

And strove to gasp his name, 
And those who could not speak or stir 

" God blessed him " just the same. 

For he was all the world to us, — 

That hero gray and grim ; 
Right well he knew that fearful slope 

We'd climb with none but him, 
Though while his white head led the way 

We'd charge hell's portals in. 

This time we were not half way up, 
When, midst the storm of shell, 

Our leader, with his sword upraised, 
Beneath our bayonets fell ; 

And as we bore him back, the foe 
Set up a joyous yell. 



100 THE READING-CLUB. 

Our hearts went with him. Back we swept, 

And when the bugle said, 
" Up, charge again ! " no man was there 

But hung his dogged, head. 
" We've no one left to lead us now," 

The sullen soldiers said. 

Just then, before the laggard line 
The colonel's horse we spied r — 

Bay Billy, with his trappings on, 
His nostril swelling wide, 

As though still on his gallant back 
The master sat astride. 

Right royally he took the place 

That was of old his wont, 
And with a neigh that seemed to say 

Above the battle's brunt, 
" How can the Twenty-second charge 

If I am not in front? " 

Like statues we stood rooted there, 

And gazed a little space : 
Above that floating mane we missed 

The dear familiar face ; 
But we saw Bay Billy's eye of fire, 

And it gave us heart of grace. 

No bugle-call could rouse us all 
As that brave sight had done. 

Down all the battered line we felt 
A lightning impulse run : 

Up, up the hill we followed Bill, 
And captured every gun ! 

And when upon the conquered height 

Died out the battle's hum, 
Vainly 'mid living and the dead 

We sought our leader dumb ; 
It seemed as if a spectre steed 

To win that day had come. 



TEE READING-CLUB. 101 

And then the dusk and dew of night 

Fell softly o'er the plain, 
As though o'er man's dread work of death 

The angels wept again, 
And drew night's curtain gently round 

A thousand beds of pain. 

All night the surgeons' torches went 

The ghastly rows between ; 
All night with solemn step I paced 

The torn and bloody green : 
But who that fought in the big war , 

Such dread sights has not seen? 

At last the "morning broke. The lark 

Sang in the merry skies 
As if to e'en the sleepers there 

It bade, Wake, and arise ! 
Though naught but that last trump of all 

Could ope their heavy eyes. 

And then once more, with banners gay, 

Stretched out the long brigade ; 
Trimly upon the furrowed field 

The troops stood on parade, 
And bravely 'mid the ranks were closed 

The gaps the fight had made. 

Not half the Twenty-second's men 

Were in that place that morn, 
And Corporal Dick, who yester-noon 

Stood six brave fellows on, 
Now touched my elbow in the ranks, 

For all between were gone. 



Ah ! who forgets that dreary hour 
When, as with misty eyes, 

To call the old familiar roll 
The solemn sergeant tries, 

One feels that thumping of the heart 
As no prompt voice replies? 



102 THE READING-CLUB. 

And as in faltering tone and slow 
The last few names were said, 

Across the field some missing horse 
Toiled up with weary tread. 

It caught the sergeant's eye, and quick 
Bay Billy's name was read. 



Yes ! there the old bay hero stood, 
All safe from battle's harms ; 

And ere an order could be heard, 
Or the bugle's quick alarms, 

Down all the front, from end to end, 
The troops presented arms 1 



Not all the shoulder-straps on earth 

Could still our mighty cheer ; 
And ever from that famous day, 

When rang the roll-call clear, 
Bay Billy's name was read, and then 

The whole line answered " Here ! " 

Frank H. Gassaway. 



HIRING HELP. 



Characters. — Mrs. Mervin; Emma, her daughter; Bridg- 
et Rooney ; jSTorah McCarty ; Ellen Flynn ; Joanna 
O'Neil; Angelina Simper; Mary Ames. 

Scene. — Mrs. Mervin's Sitting-room. 

Emma. Well, mother, as our advertisement appeared in 
the paper last evening, I suppose we may expect any amount 
of answers in the shape of Irish girls. 

Mrs. Mervin. Quite likely; and I must confess I dread 
the ordeal. It is better, however, to advertise, and have the 
girls call at the house, than to seek them at the intelligence 
office. 

Emma. Oh, yes, indeed ! I made a vow the last time you 



THE READING-CLUB. 103 

sent me there for a girl, that if I could possibly help it I 
would never enter such a place again. 

Mrs. Mervin. Well, I hope our present plan will be suc- 
cessful, and we shall be fortunate enough to secure a good 
girl. If we had less company, and our family were not so 
large, we would try to do the work together, and get along 
without help. 

Emma. I wish we might, mother. I have often felt, after 
the disorderly reign of some tyrannical Bridget, that I would 
like to banish them all from whence they came, and wield 
the kitchen sceptre alone. {Bell rings.) There comes num- 
ber one, I'll warrant. 

Enter Bridget Rooney. 

Bridget. The top of the mornin' to ye, ma'am ; and sure 
is yer name Mervin ? 

Mrs. Mervin. It is; and I suppose you have come to 
answer my advertisement for a girl. 

Bridget. Indade I have, ma'am. Is it a cook ye would 
be afther wantin' ? 

Mrs. Mervin. I wish a girl to do general housework, and 
of course that includes a knowledge of plain cooking. 
Would you like such a place? 

Bridget. And sure I can't tell, ma'am, till I ax ye a few 
questions, and finds out the characther of the place intirely. 
What wages do ye give? 

Mrs. Mervin. Three dollars. 

Bridget. And how many have ye in the family, ma'am? 

Mrs. Mervin. Seven persons. , 

Bridget. Well, indade, and if ever I heard the like ! Siv- 
in persons, and only three dollars wages ! Shure me cousin, 
Kate Murphy, gits four dollars, and there's only three in the 
house. I'll come for no three dollars, unless yer house has 
all the modern convainyences. Do ye have gas in the kitch- 
en and girl's room ? 

Mrs. Mervin. We have gas in the kitchen, but we do not 
think it necessary in the girl's sleeping-room. 

Bridget. And, faith, it's as much wanted there as any- 
where. A poor girl doesn't want to be groping about with 
a nasty kerosene-lamp. How much time in a week do you 
give a girl to herself, ma'am ? 

Mrs. Mervin. One afternoon and evening a week. I be- 
lieve that is a general rule. 



104 THE READING-CLUB. 

Bridget. It's not a rule I goes by, ma'am. I wants two 
afternoons a week, and every evenin' besides, and I'm used 
to have my friends come whenever I like. 

Mrs. Mervin. I see you wouldn't suit me at all, so you 
had better not remain here any longer. I don't intend to 
pay a girl wages, and give her half her time besides. 

Bridget. And shure yer no lady, ma'am ; and I wouldn't 
set f ut in yer house if ye'd give me five dollars a week, bad 
luck to ye. [Exit Bridget. 

Mrs. Mervin. Not a very promising specimen to begin 
with, surely. 

Emma. I should think not, indeed. The idea of her 
asking four dollars a week, and wanting, as you said, nearly 
half her time ! {Bell rings.) There's another. I shall find 
full employment in tending the door-bell, at this rate. 

Enter Norah McCarty. 

Norah. Are you the lady, ma'am, the paper said wanted 
a girl ? 

- Mrs. Mervin. Yes, I advertised for one yesterday. Can 
you do general housework ? 

Norah. Faith I can, ma'am ; it's a gineral's housework 
I've been doing, and I might have staid in the place foriver, 
only that herself was that fussy that niver a soul could plaze 
her. 

Mrs. Mervin. Can you make good bread ? 

Norah. Good bread is it ye say? And indade I can make 
that same. I makes it with imtens, ma'am; and if it sours 
a bit, I puts a handful of salerathus into it, and it comes out 
oi the oven as swate as a nut, and a fine color on it besides. 

Emma. Dear me ! I should think it might have a fine 
color with a handful of saleratus in it ! 

Mrs. Mervin. At what other place have you lived besides 
the one you mentioned ? 

Norah. Nowheres at all, ma'am; that's the first place I 
wint when I came from the ould counthry. 

Mrs. Mervin. How long did you live there, and what 
part of the work did you do ? 

Norah. Well, ma'am, I lived there three weeks, 'liven 
days, and a fortnight — barrin' the two days that I staid out 
to take care of me cousin Mike; and I did the fine work, 
mostly, ma'am, — scrubbing, sifting ashes, and "the likes of 
that. Do ye think ye would like to hire me, ma'am ? 



THE READING-CLUB. 105 

Mrs. Mervin. I guess not. I am afraid you haven't had 
experience enough to do my work properly. 

Norah. Well, ma'am, if that's any thing I could buy at 
the store, I would be willing to spend a thrifle to get some, 
for the sake of livin' wid ye. 

Mrs. Mervin. Experience in housework cannot be bought 
at the stores ; so you had better look somewhere else for a 
place. [Exit Norah. 

Emma. Well, mother, did you ever hear of such stupidity 
before ? 

Mrs. Mervin. She's the greenest specimen I've seen yet. 
I wonder who will come next ? {Bell rings.) 

Emma. We shall soon see. 

Enter Ellen Flynn. 

Ellen. A fine day, ma'am. Is it yerself that wants a 
girl ? 

Mrs. Mervin. Yes, if I can find a good one ; but I am 
sorry to say they seem to be growing very scarce. 

Ellen. You are mistaken there, ma'am; it's good places 
that's gittin' scarce. How big a family do ye have? 

Mrs. Mervin. There are seven of us, and we of course 
have company occasionally. 

Ellen. That's too many intirely ; but I s'pose with all 
thim ye keep two girls and a man besides. 

Mrs. Mervin. No, we keep but one servant. 

Ellen. Servint is it ! Well, ma'am, that's what I niver 
allows meself to be called. What sort of convainyences is 
there in the house ? Is there a rocking-chair in the kitchen, 
where I can rest meself while the pot's a-bilin' ? 

Mrs. Mervin. No, I don't consider that a necessary ar- 
ticle of kitchen furniture. 

Ellen. We differs there, ma'am; I can't do without a 
rocking-chair. I see you have a pianny. I s'pose ye wouldn't 
mind if I learned to play on it afther me work is done — 
would ye ? 

Mrs. Mervin. I should object very strongly to giving a 
girl such a privilege. 

Ellen. Well, ma'am, it's gittin' quite the fashion for the 
ladies that live out to play. Me cousin Kate Donnelly plays 
" St. Pathrick's Day in the Mornin'," and " Rory O'More," 
illigant; and I've made up me mind I'll live in no place agin 
where I can't have the chance to play the pianny. 



106 THE READING-CLUB. 

Mrs. Mcrvin. Then the quicker you look for such a place, 
the better. It isn't worth while for me to spend any more 
time talking with you. 

Ellen. Indade, it's a very uncivil tongue ye have, ma'am ; 
and it's meself that ought to grumble for spendin' me pre- 
cious time talkin' to the likes of you. [Exit Ellen. 

Emma. It grows worse and worse, mother ! What are 
we coming to ? 

Mrs. Mervin. Dear me ! I don't know ! I am fairly dis- 
couraged ! {Bell rings.') 

Enter Joanna. 

Joanna. Are ye afther wantin' a girl, ma'am? 

Mrs. Mervin. Yes ; I want a good one. 

Joanna. Faith, thin, it's glad I am that my brother Path- 
rick read me the scrap in the paper last night, for I'm want- 
in' a place. 

Mrs. Mervin. What can you do? 

Joanna. Well, thin, I can do any thing at all that ye 
likes, I washes beautiful ; and me clothes has such a fine 
blue color on thim, when I takes thim in, it would do yer 
sowl good to see thim. 

Mrs. Mervin. Oh, dear ! I don't like so much bluing in 
my clothes. 

Joanna. Faith, thin, I'll jist lave out the blue a few 
times, and they'll be as fine a yaller as ye wish ; any thing 
to suit ye, ma'am. 

Emma. Can you do common cooking? 

Joanna. I niver does any thing common, miss ; all I cooks 
is in the fust style. I can make Meringo pies that would 
melt in your mouth, Charlotte Russians, and Blue Munge, 
too. 

Emma. Indeed ! you seem quite like an adept in cooking. 

Joanna. I don't know what an adipt is ; but if you mean 
I'm a good cook, I am that. Ye ought to see the fine roast 
pig I cooked the other day ; sich a handsome baste was niver 
set before on a gintleman's table, I'll warrant. 

Mrs. Mervin. You seem to despise common cooking. I 
have very little else done in my family. We live quite 
plainly, and I hardly think you would suit me. 

Joanna. Well, now, ma'am, we won't let the cooking 
come betwixt us. I can cook plain, if I like ; so, if ye plaze, 
I'd like to come and try. 



THE READING-CLUB. 107 

Mrs. Mervin. Can you bring me a certificate of good 
character from the lady who last employed you ? 

Joanna. A stifkit ! What's that, shure? 

Mrs. Mervin. A paper, stating what character you bear. 

Joanna. Indade, ma'am, I niver carries my charactercher 
round in a dirty piece of paper, that's liable to be torn up 
any day. I thinks more of meself than that. 

Mrs. Mervin. Very well ; I cannot take you, unless you 
can bring me such a paper. 

Joanna. Faith, ye won't have the chance ; and I'm think- 
in' it'll be a long time before ye gets suited. Ye'll find no 
dacent girl will carry her charactercher loose in her hand. 

[Exit Joanna. 

Emma. Another verdant specimen. These interviews 
grow interesting. I'm beginning to enjoy them. I wonder 
who will come next? {Bell rings.) 

Mrs. Mervin. We shall soon see who has given the bell 
juch a gentle pull. 

Enter Angelina Simper. 

Angelina. Are you the lady who manifested her desire to 
■secure an assistant in her family, by inserting an advertise- 
ment in " The Gazette " of last evening ? 

Mrs. Mervin. Yes ; I advertised for a servant-girl. Do 
you wish such a situation ? 

Angelina. I might be induced, madam, to accept a posi- 
tion in your family for a sufficient consideration. 

Mrs. Mervin. Are you familiar with housework ? 

Angelina. Yes, in a certain way. I am in the habit of 
idealizing and etherealizing every thing which I undertake. 
I think I have discovered the method of extracting the 
poetry from housework; and instead of regarding it as a 
wearisome drudgery, I make it a grand poem. 

Emma. I think you must be an inventive genius if you 
can find any poetry in washing greasy dishes, or scrubbing 
kitchen floors. 

Angelina. Ah, miss, there is poetry in every thing. I 
revel in it, morning, noon, and night. Its glorious beams 
brighten my pathway at every step of my earthly progress. 
I have written a volume of sweet verses ; and if they can 
only be properly brought before the public, my name will be 
immortalized, and the poet's laurels forever crown my brow. 
It is to gain a sufficient sum to publish this gem among 



108 THE READING-CLUB. 

poetical works, that I have decided, for a short time, to put 
in practice my ideal method of housekeeping. 

Mrs. Mervin. Can you make bread, and do up shirts? 

Angelina. Yes: I can insert the rising element in a 
liquid form into the snowy flour; or I can use those subtile 
powders that permeate the mass of doughy particles, and 
make them rise in comely proportions. 

Emma. Indeed ! but how about the shirts? 

Angelina. Well, after bringing them in from their bath 
in the sunlight, I immerse them in starch of pearly white- 
ness, and after sufficient time has elapsed I press to their 
bosoms a hot iron. I am reminded by this that only through 
fiery trials we can be made to shine with becoming lustre 
ourselves. 

Mrs. Mervin. I think you will have to find some other 
place in which to practise your fine ideas of housework. You 
soar quite too high for us. 

Angelina. Adieu; this weary birdling seeks another nest. 

[Exit Angelina. 

Emma. O, mother! I thought I should burst out laugh- 
ing in her face. She is an escaped lunatic, I do believe. 

Mrs. Mervin. I should think she was. {Bell rings.) 
There's another ; this time an artist, perhaps. I'll go 
straight to the office, and have that advertisement taken out. 

Enter Mary. 

Mary. Is this Mrs. Mervin who advertised for a girl? 

Mrs. Mervin. Yes, I am the lady. Do you know of any 
good girl ? 

Mary. I would like to get a place myself. I have worked 
in a shop since I left my home in the country, three years 
ago ; but I find the confinement doesn't agree with me, and I 
had rather do housework. 

Mrs. Mervin. You understand it, then, I suppose. 

Mary. Oh, yes ! I am next to the oldest in a family of 
nine children, and my mother commenced teaching me to do 
housework almost as soon as I could go alone. As soon as 
the sister next me could take my place, I left home to see 
if I could earn something to help along. A man like my 
father, with a small farm and a large family of children, 
finds it rather hard to get along sometimes. 

Mrs. Mervin. Yes, he must find it hard to feed and clothe 
so many, with so little ready money as farmers generally 



THE READING-CLUB. 109 

have. You are a dutiful daughter to endeavor to assist him 
what you can ; but would your parents approve of your liv- 
ing out in the city ? 

Mary. Yes : ever since my side has ached with such con- 
stant sewing, mother has been urging me to live out ; and 
I should have tried to get a place long before this, only I 
dreaded so much to go to an intelligence-office. When 
I saw your advertisement, I decided to apply here imme- 
diately. 

Airs. Mervin. I am very glad you did, for I should like 
to engage you without further delay. How soon can you 
come ? 

Mary. To-night, if you wish ; my week is out at my 
boarding-place, and I shouldn't care to commence another. 

Mrs. Mervin. Very well, you can come, then, and I will 
give you three dollars a week. Will that be satisfactory? 

Mary. Quite so : that is more than I clear some weeks 
now ; and it will be such a relief to have done with so much 
sewing. Good-morning, ma'am. I'll be here about five 
o'clock. [Exit Mary. 

Emma. There, mother, see what has come by advertising 
in a respectable paper. I think you have secured a jewel, 
— so tidy and civil, — and I know by her looks she knows 
how to do every thing. 

Mrs. Mervin. Yes, I am greatly pleased with her appear- 
ance; and how much more sensible in her to do housework 
than kill herself sewing in a shop ! I hope the time will 
soon come when a great many more in her circumstances 
will go and do likewise. Mrs. S. E. Dawes. 



Part II 



The Reading-Club. 



THE DRUMMER'S BETROTHED. 

"Douce est la morte qui vient en bien aimant." 

Our liege lord, the Due de Bretagne, 

To deadly battle for the king 
Summons sent from Xantes to Mortagne, 
In the plain and on the mountain, 

To warriors of his following. 

Barons they are, whose gleaming arms 

Adorn the moated castle's crest, 
Proud knights, grown old midst war's alarms 
Esquires, and footmen with their arms ; 
And my betrothed went with the rest. 

He went to Aquitaine, and. though 

Among the drummers he's enrolled, 
He seemed a captain, marching slow, 
With haughty head, and eyes aglow, 
And doublet glittering with gold. 

Since then nor peace nor rest I know. 

Joining his lot with mine, I've cried 
To my St. Brigitte, bending low, 
Watch well his guardian angel, so 

That he shall never leave his side ! 



THE READING-CLUB. 

I said to our abbe one night, 

Pray for our soldiers, messire, pray! 
And since he loves to see their light, 
I left three candles burning bright 
Before St. Gildas' shrine next day. 

And to Our Lady of Lorette 

I promised in my cruel fright 
To wear — and see, I wear it yet — 
A ruff with pilgrim's cockles set, 
Close hid from curious sight. 

No loving letters has he penned 
While far away where battles rage : 

Though life and love be near their end. 

The vassal has no squire to send, 
The vassal's sweetheart has no page. 

To-day the duke returns in state, 
With him my love, a soldier tried, 

No longer lowly in estate. 

I lift my head, bowed down of late, 
And my bliss blossoms into pride. 

The duke brings home triumphantly, 

Worn and soiled, the flag that's floated 
O'er his camp. Come all with me 
To the old gate, the troops to see, 
And the prince and my betrothed. 

To see the horse, with trappings gay 
Caparisoned, his lord to bear, 

Advance, retreat, with conscious neigh, 

Tossing his head till its array 

Of plumes like flaming torches flare. 

To see — O sisters, why so slow ? — 

The drums that lead my hero on, 

The drums that in the sunlight glow, 

That throb beneath his tireless blow 

Till the heart throbs in unison. 






THE READING-CLUB. 

And, best of all, to see his face ! 

I worked his cloak with broidery fair : 
He'll look like one of princely race, 
And with a more than princely grace 

His plumed helm he'll w T ear. 

The impious Egyptian bent 

Close above me last night, hissing, 

(God help us ! ) " You are confident ! 

Drums will sound till the air is rent, 
But one drummer will be missing." 

But I hope still, so much I've prayed ! 

Though, with her hand outstretched to where 
Among the tombs her home she made, 
Her snake's eyes gleaming through the shade, 

She said : " We'll meet to-morrow there." 

No more dark fancies ! Hear how loud 
The drums beat ! Sisters, let us go. 

See how the ladies fair and proud 

The purple-hung pavilions crowd, 

Where banners float and flowers glow. 

The escort comes, by pikemen led, 

Then, not to-day in armor tried, 
In gleaming silken robes instead, 
And velvet-capped each haughty head, 

The barons, under flags flung wide. 

And robed priests pass, chanting low, 
And heralds, riding milk-white steeds, 

Escutcheons on their corslets show 

Their masters' rank, won long ago 
By some ancestor's mighty deeds. 

In Persian mail magnificent, 

Feared of all hell, the Templars ride; 

Then, all in buff, with bows unbent, 

The long array of archers, sent 

From far Lausanne, march side by side. 



THE READING-CLUB. 

The duke is near ; his banners fling 

Their folds o'er squire and cavalier ; 
The captured ensigns seem to cling- 
About their standards, sorrowing. 
Look, the drummers are almost here 1 

Silent, smiling, she turned her head, 

Scanned the close ranks with eager eye. 
The crowd pressed close ; no word she said, 
But fell among them cold and dead — 
The drummers had passed by. 
By M. Cecile Brown, from the French of Victor Hugo. 



JOHN LELAND'S EXAMINATION. 

Up on the heights in the Old Dominion, where the houses 
are few, and many of the mountaineers know little of the 
settlements below, a man of God lived who took to preach- 
ing the gospel in his own rude way. He was a man of 
strong character and clear common sense. He could just 
read the Bible — that was all; but he got at the heart of 
things as his ministry showed, and drew near to the heart 
of his Master. He was a very plain preacher, a most care- 
less and unguarded man. He told the people the truth 
without any apologies, with all kindness and tenderness of 
heart. Many were turned from sin unto righteousness ; and 
the presbytery, in whose bounds his work was, determined 
to ordain him, simply on the ground of his efficiency and 
clear call to the ministry, though he had no education. He 
objected. They persisted. Finally the day was appointed, 
and a large company from the mountains and the valleys 
below gathered to witness the examination for licensing and 
ordination of this strange character. All knew that there 
would be something entertaining in his answers. The 
presbytery assembled, the congregation looking on. John 
Leland took his place in front, dropping his head into his 
hands. The moderator simply stated the object of the meet- 
ing, addressing Mr. Leland. The latter looked up and 
said, — 



THE READING-CLUB. 9 

" Mr. Moderator, I'll tell you all I know. It won't take 
long," and down his head went into his hands again. A 
smile went around the assembly. 

Moderator. Mr. Leland, do you believe that God had 
a people, chosen and elect before the foundations of the 
world ? 

Leland. I don't know what God was doin' before he 
made the world. Don't know any thin' about it. I a'n't a 
educated man. 

Moderator. Yes, but you must understand me. You 
certainly believe that God had a people chosen and elect 
from all eternity ? 

Leland. No. I don't believe that. They couldn't 
a' been our kind o' folks, anyway ; because ours are made 
out of the dust of the earth, you know. 

Moderator. Mr. Leland, we have heard of your Christian 
life, of your efficiency and your success, and we are met 
to ordain you to the ministry of the gospel. This is a 
solemn occasion, and you must not make light of the ques- 
tions. Now, I want to know if you believe in the total 
depravity of mankind V 

Leland. No, I don't, if you mean by that that men are 
as bad as they can be ; for the Devil a'n't any worse'n that, 
you know. 

Moderator. Do you believe in imputed righteousness, 
and that it is sufficient to save all who have faith? 

Leland. I don't know any righteousness that will save a 
man who won't do right himself. 

Moderator. Do you believe in the final perseverance of 
the saints ? 

Leland. I don't know what that means. 

Moderator. Well, you believe^that all who are converted 
will be kept, and not fall away? 

Leland. Oh, I don't know how it is down in the settle- 
ments, among the educated; but I tell you up where we live, 
we have the awfulest cases of backsliding. 

Moderator. But, Mr. Leland, you certainly believe that 
when a man is converted he will be kept in some way, and 
finally saved ? 

Leland. I cannot tell much about that, till I am saved 
myself. Don't know any thing about it now. 

Moderator. You feel that you are called to preach the 
gospel ? 



10 THE READING-CLUB. 

Leland. No, I never heard any one call me. 

Moderator. We do not mean that you heard a voice — 
any thing said — but that you are called. 

Leland. Well, Mr. Moderator, if there wasn't any voice, 
or any thing said, don't know how there could be any call. 
Never heard any. 

Moderator. You believe it is your duty to preach the 
gospel to all creatures? 

Leland. No. I don't believe it my duty to preach to 
the Dutch, for instance. I can't talk Dutch. If the Lord 
wanted me to preach to them, in some way I could talk 
Dutch ; but I can't, I never tried. 

Moderator. Mr. Leland, you certainly desire to see all 
men come to repentance, and turn to righteousness. Your 
acts show that. We have heard of your self-sacrificing 
spirit, your love for mankind, and all your good works to 
win sinners to the gospel and repentance. 

Leland. Mr. Moderator, I'll tell you the honest truth. 
I am ajittle ashamed of it; but it is God's truth just as I 
tell you. Some days I do feel that way ; and then again, 
some of them act so bad, I don't care if the Devil gets half 
of them. 

After the presbytery had retired to take counsel over the 
matter, they returned and announced that while his answers 
had not been entirely satisfactory in every respect, neverthe- 
less, in view of his efficiency in preaching, they had voted to 
ordain him, which they proceeded to do in the usual man- 
ner. After it was over, Mr. Leland lifted his head out of 
his hands, straightened himself up, and stood his full height. 
Looking first at the moderator, and then all round him, he 
said, — 

" Brethren, I've put you to a heap o' trouble. I don't 
know any thin' about your doctrines, 'n' I told you I didn't. 
I've been doin' the best I could, preachin' the gospel as I 
found it in the Bible. Now, you see, I don't know any thing- 
else. Another thing : when the apostles put their hands on 
a man's head, I read that the man had some power, or some 
sense, or some knowledge, that he hadn't afore. But now, 
brethren, honest and true, right out, you've all had your 
hands on me, and I am just as big a fool as ever I was. But 
I thank you, nevertheless : I'm very much obleeged to you." 

And so they let him go. 



THE READING-CLUB. 11 



THE SEPTEMBER GALE. 

I'm not a chicken : I have seen 

Full many a chill September ; 
And though I was a youngster then, 

That gale I well remember. 
The day before my kite-string snapped, 

And, I my kite pursuing, 
The wind whisked off my palm-leaf hat ; 

For me two storms were brewing ! 

It came as quarrels sometimes do, 

When married folks get clashing: 
There was a heavy sigh or two 

Before the fire was flashing ; 
A little stir among the clouds 

Before they rent asunder ; 
A little rocking of the trees, 

And then came on the thunder. 

Lord ! how the ponds and rivers boiled ! 

They seemed like bursting craters ! 
And oaks lay scattered on the ground 

As if they were p'taters ; 
And all above was in a howl, 

And all below a clatter, — 
The earth was like a frying-pan, 

Or some such hissing matter. 

It chanced to be our washing-day, 

And all our things were drying : 
The storm came roaring through the lines, 

And sent them all a-flying ; 
I saw the shirts and petticoats 

Go riding off like witches ; 
I lost, ah ! bitterly I wept, — 

I lost my Sunday breeches ! 

I saw them straddling through the air, 

Alas ! too late to win them ; 
I saw them chase the clouds as if 

The Devil had been in them. 



12 THE READING-CLUB. 

They were my darlings and my pride, 

My boyhood's only riches, — 
" Farewell, farewell," I faintly cried, 

" My breeches ! Oh my breeches ! " 

That night I saw them in my dreams ; 

How changed from what I knew them ! 
The dews had steeped their faded threads, 

The wind had whistled through them ; 
I saw the wide and ghastly rents 

Where demon claws had torn them ; 
A hole was in their amplest part, 

As if an imp had worn them. 

I have had many happy years, 

And tailors kind and clever ; 
But those young pantaloons have gone 

Forever, and forever ! 
And not till time has cut the last 

Of all my earthly stitches, 
This aching heart shall cease to mourn 

My loved, my long-lost breeches. 

0. W. Holmes 



AT THE RISING OF THE MOON. 

" Oh, then ! tell me, Shawn O'Ferrall, 

Tell me why you hurry so ? " 
" Hush, ma bouchal, hush and listen ; " 

And his cheeks were all aglow. 
" I bear ordhers from the captain : 

Get you ready, quick and soon ; 
For the pikes must be together 

At the risin' of the moon." 

"Oh, then! tell me, Shawn O'Ferrall. 

Where the gatherin' is to be ? " 
" In the ould spot by the river, 

Right w T ell known to you aftd me. 



THE READING-CLUB. 13 

One word more — for signal token, 

Whistle up the marchin' tune, 
"With your pike upon your shoulder 

By the risin' of the moon." 

Out from many a mud-wall cabin, 

Eyes were watching through that night : 
Many a manly chest was throbbing 

For the blessed warning light. 
Murmurs passed along the valley, 

Like the banshee's lonely croon, 
And a thousand blades were flashing, 

At the risin' of the moon. 

There beside the singing river 

That dark mass of men was seen, 
Far above the shining weapons 

Hung their own beloved green. 
'* Death to every foe and traitor! 

Forward, strike the marchin' tune, 
And hurrah, my boys, for freedom ! 

'Tis the risin' of the moon." 

Well, they fought for poor old Ireland, 

And full bitter was their fate. 
(Oh ! what glorious pride and sorrow 

Fill the name of Ninety-eight ! ) 
Yet, thank God, e'en still are beating 

Hearts in manhood's burning noon, 
Who would follow in their footsteps 

At the risin' of the moon ! 

Leo Casey. 



THE SADDEST SIGHT. 

When a woman her home would decorate, 
She stops not at obstacles small or great; 
But the funniest sight her trials afford 
Is when madam essays to saw a board. 



14 THE READING-CLUB. 

With her knee on a plank, and the plank on a chair, 
She poises her saw with a knowing air, 
Makes several wild rasps at the pencilled line, 
And is off with a whizz the reverse of fine. 

With lips compressed she gets down to work, 

And crosses the timber jerkity-jerk ; 

She can't keep to the line, her knee slips askew ; 

But she keeps to the work till the board splits in two. 

She has damaged the chair, she has ruined the saw, 
Her back is aching, her hands are raw, 
And she finds, when she tries to fit her prize, 
It's an inch too short of the requisite size. 



NEBULOUS PHILOSOPHY. 

She came from Concord's classic shades, on Reason's throne 

she sat, 
And wove intricate arguments to prove, in language pat, 
The Whichness of the Wherefore, and the Thusness of the 

That. 

She scorned ignoble subjects, each grovelling household 

care, 
But tuned her lofty soul to prove the Airness of the Air, 
And twisted skeins of logic round the Whatness of the 

Where. 

To lower natures leaving the dollars, and the sense, 
She soared above the level of commonplace pretence, 
And moulded treatises which prove the Thatness of the 
Thence. 

Her glorious purpose to reveal the Thinkfulness of the 

Thought, 
To trace each line by Somewhat on the Somehow's surface 

wrought, 
To picture forms of Whynot's from the Whatnot's meaning 

caught; 



THE READING-CLUB. 15 

To cultivate our spirits with the Whyfore's classic flow, 
To benefit the Thereness with the Highness of the How, 
To flood the dark with radiance from the Thisness of the 
Now. 

"What good has she accomplished? " Oh, never doubt her 

thus! 
It must be useful to reveal the Plusness of the Plus, 
To illustrate with corkscrew words the Whichness of the Us. 

Mock not, poor common mortal, when thoughts like these 

appear, 
Illumining our labor with the Howness of the Here, 
And blazing like a comet through the Nowness of the Near. 

Some day in Realms Eternal such grand mist-haunted souls, 
Inscribe their words of Whichness on Whereforeantic scrolls, 
In that great world of Muchness which through the Maybe 
rolls. 

Then shall we each acknowledge the Whyness of the 

Whence ; 
Each understand completely with Sensefulness of Sense, 
The Thusness of the Therefore, the Thatness of the Thence. 

J. Edgar Jones. 



AT ARLINGTON. 

The broken column, reared in air, 
To him who made our country great, 

Can almost cast its shadow where 

The victims of a grand despair 
In long, long ranks of death await 

The last loud trump, the judgment sun, 
Which comes for all, and soon or late 

Will come for those at Arlington. 

In that vast sepulchre repose 

The thousands reaped from every fray ; 
The men in blue who once uprose 
In battle front to smite their foes — 

The Spartan bands who wore the gray. 



16 THE READING-CLUB. 

The combat o'er, the death-hug done, 
In summer blaze or winter's snows, 
They keep the truce at Arlington. 

And, almost lost in myriad graves 

Of those who gained the unequal fight, 

Are mounds that hide Confederate braves, 

Who reck not how the north wind raves, 
In dazzling day or dimmest night. 

O'er those who lost and those who won 
Death holds no parley which was right — 

Jehovah judges Arlington. 

The dead had rest; the dove of peace, 
Brooded o'er both with equal wings ; 

To both had come that great surcease, 

The last omnipotent release 

From all the world's delirious stings, 

To bugle deaf and signal gun 

They slept, like heroes of old Greece, 

Beneath the glebe at Arlington. 

And in the Spring's benignant reign, 
The sweet May woke her harp of pines? 

Teaching her choir a thrilling strain 

Of jubilee to land and main. 

She danced in emerald down the lines, 

Denying largess bright to none. 
She saw no difference in the signs 

That told who slept at Arlington. 

She gave her grasses and her showers 
To all alike who dreamed in dust ; 

Her song-birds wove their dainty bowers 

Amid the jasmine buds and flowers, 
And piped with an impartial trust. 

Waifs of the air and liberal sun ! 

Their guileless glees were kind and just 

To friend and foe at Arlington. 

And 'mid the generous spring there came 

Some women of the land who strove 
To make this funeral field of fame 



THE READING-CLUB. 17 

Glad as the May God's altar flame 

With rosy wreaths of mutual love. 
Unmindful who had lost or won, 

They scorned the jargon of a name — 
No North, no South, at Arlington. 
/ James R. Randall. 



A LAUGHING PHILOSOPHER, 

Admiring my flowers, sir ? P'raps you'd step inside the 
gate, and walk round my little place ? It ain't big, but 
there's plenty of variety, — violets and cabbages, roses and 
artichokes. Any one that didn't care for flowers 'ud be sure 
to rind beauty in them young spring onions. People's ideas 
differ very much, there ain't a doubt of it. One man's very 
happy over a glass of whiskey and water, and another thinks 
every thing 'ud go straight in this 'ere world if we all drank 
tea and lemonade. And it's right enough : it keeps things 
even. We should have the world a very one-sided affair if 
everybody pulled the same way. Philosopher, am I? Well, 
I dunno. I've got a theory to be sure — every one has now- 
adays ; and mine is, that there is a joke to be found in every 
mortal thing if only we look in the right place for it. But 
some people don't know how to look for it. Why, sir, if 
you'll believe it, I was talking to a man yesterday that 
couldn't see any thing to laugh at in the naval demonstra- 
tion. 

Am I independent ? Well, I makes money by my fruit 
and vegetables, if that's what you mean. But there's so 
many ways of being independent. One man marries a 
woman with £20,000 a year, and calls that independence. 
Another votes on the strongest side, and calls that being in- 

^ dependent. One takes up every new-fangled idea that 
comes out, and says he's independent. Some calls impu- 
dence independence. There's not a name as fits so many 
different articles. No! I've never bin married. Somehow, I 
don't think married men see the fun in every thing same as 
single ones. I don't mean to be disrespectful to the ladies, 
but I do think they enjoy a good cry more than a good 



18 THE READING-CLUB. 

laugh. Was I ever in love? and did I laugh then? Why, 
yes, never laughed heartier in my life. It's a good many 
years ago now. I was living in lodgings down Clerkenwell 
way, and the landlady's daughter was as pretty a creature as 
ever you see, bright and cheery, like a robin, when first I 
knew her. But, by and by, she grew pale and peaky, — used 
to go about the house without singing, and had such big, 
sad-looking eyes. Pier home wasn't a particularly happy 
one, for her mother was a nagger. Perhaps you've never 
come across a woman of that pertikler character. Well, 
then, you should say double the prayers of ordinary people ; 
for you've much to be thankful for. I never looked at her 
without feeling that her husband must have been very 
happy indeed when he got to heaven. I sometimes think, 
sir, that women of this sort might be made use of, and 
prisons, and all other kind of punishment, done away with : 
perhaps, though, the lunatic asylums 'ud get too full. 

Well, I grew to be quite intimate with Bessie ; and one 
evening, I don't know how it was, she told me all her trou- 
bles. She was engaged to a young man ; and her mother 
wouldn't consent to them marrying, and was always worry- 
ing her to break it off. I asked her if there were any thing 
against him. Nothing, except that her mother had taken a 
dislike to him : he wasn't very strong, but he was the best, 
cleverest, dearest fellow that ever lived. All the time she 
was talking I felt a gnawing sort of pain somewhere in my 
inside. First, I thought I must be hungry; but, when I came 
to eat, all my food seemed to get in my throat, and stick 
there. This won't do, old fellow, thinks I : there must be 
a joke to be got out of it somewhere. So I set to consider; 
and there, clear enough, it was. Why, the joke 'ud be to let 
Bessie marry her young man, and see the pretty cheeks grow 
round and pink again. But how to do it, there was the rub. 
I . began to cultivate the old lady's society with a view to 
finding out her weak point : for, being a woman, of course 
she had a weak point ; and, being a very ugly woman, what 
do you think it was? Why, vanity, to be sure. I soon no- 
ticed a change in her. She took her hair out of paper every 
day, instead of only on Sundays, as she had been used to do ; 
and she put on a clean cap sometimes, and smirked'whenever 
I passed her. Why, here's a bigger joke than I bargained 
for, thinks I ! While I've been studying the woman to find 
out her weak point, she thinks I've been admiring her. But 



THE READING-CLUB. 19 

I soon saw what use I could make of this. I went down 
into the kitchen when she wasn't busy, — I knew it would be 
rather too hot other times, — and I got talking about Bessie. 
"It's strange," I says, "that a fine-looking girl like that 
shouldn't have a sweetheart. Things was different when 
you was younger, I'll be bound." 

" As for that," says she, " Bessie has a sweetheart ; but 
I don't approve of him. He's not exactly the sort of man I 
expected for her." 

"But, lor'," I says, "you wouldn't go and keep that girl 
single ! Think what harm you may do yourself. You can't 
be so cruel as to give up all idea of marrying agin ! Why, 
you don't look forty." That wasn't an untruth, for she 
looked fifty. She tossed her head, and told me to go along. 
I didn't go along. I says, " There's no doubt lots of young- 
fellows 'ud be glad enough of a good-looking wife like you, 
but mightn't care for a daughter as old as Miss Bessie." 
This seemed to strike her very much. I followed it up, got 
talking to her day after day, and always led the. conversation 
to the same point. At last one day when I came home 
from work, she says, " It's all settled. Bessie's going to be 
married, and her Tom's coming here this evening." Then I 
went up to my own room, and laughed till I cried. Pres- 
ently I heard the little girl run up-stairs as she hadn't run 
for many a long day, and I knew she'd gone to put on a 
smart ribbon for Tom's sake. She tapped at my door as 
she passed. Would I come down? somebody was there, 
and wanted to know me. I called out that I was busy, and 
couldn't come; and she went away. But after about an hour 
she came again. I was sitting in the dark, thinking of a 
good many things ; and before I had time to speak she was 
down on her knees beside me, and hiding her face. 

" You told me you were bus}-," she said; "and here you 
are all in the dark and cold, and I can't bear any one to be 
dull or lonely to-night, because I'm so very, very happy. 
And I know it's all through you. Mother would never have 
given in of her own accord. You've always been my friend 
when I wanted one very badly ; and now you must be angry 
with me, or you wouldn't stay away to-night. And you 
won't even speak to me. Oh, whatever I've done to vex 
you, don't think of it any more ! " 

She nestled up to me so close that her hair touched my 
coat-sleeve, and her pretty eyes looked up all swimming 



20 THE READING-CLUB. 

with tears. I ground my teeth, and clinched my hands, or — ' 
or I don't know what I mightn't ha' done. You see the joke 
of this, sir, don't you? Here was the girl crying, and asking 
me to forgive her, and like her a little ; and there was I — not 
disliking her a bit all the time. Ha, ha, ha ! I had a hearty 
laugh at her, and hurried with her down-stairs, and was in- 
troduced to Tom, and I talked to the old lady, and drank the 
young people's health, and was as happy as possible. And 
on the wedding-day I gave her away as if I had been her 
father ; and I sang a song and danced : and, when the time 
came for Bessie to go away with her husband, I dried her 
eyes ; for at the last moment the tender-hearted little thing 
broke down, and cried, and kissed us all, and asked her 
mother not to feel angry with her for leaving her all alone ; 
and then the mother cried, and what with having so many 
eyes to wipe, I found myself wiping my own just as if it all 
weren't a tremendous joke. 

How have they got on since ? 'Bout as well as most peo- 
ple, I suppose : she loves him, and takes care of him. And 
the mother's softened down a bit since she's bin a grand- 
mother. And as to my godson, there never was such a boy. 
I have him with me as much as possible, and he's beginning 
to see the joke of every thing almost as much as I do myself. 
And when I die, all this little place '11 belong to him, and 
he'll be a rich man : so my death'll be the biggest joke of all, 
you see, sir. 



THE SONG OF THE DRUM. 

Dr-r-rum ! Dr-r-rum ! 
Dr-r-rum ! Drum ! Drum ! 
With a rap, and a tap, and a rolling beat, 
And a sound on the ground of the tramp of feet, 
Keeping step they come, 
With the sound of the drum, 
With the rolling and the beating of the drum. 

And away fly the people as if driven for their lives ! 
Scudding out as if possessed from their daily human hives, 
With a flurry, 

And a scurry, 

In a most outrageous hurry, 






THE READING-CLUB. 21 

Out of counting house and office, 

Out of store and room and shop, 

Don't ask them any questions, 

For they haven't time to stop, 
Till they meet in the street, 
Touching shoulders, crushing feet, 

Millionnaire and humble tradesman, and the man who toils 
for bread, 

And up in one direction turned is every eager head. 

Hear the crowd 

Cry aloud ! 
What a mixed and motley set ! 

And anon 

Running on 
While the drum is distant yet, 
Making every one forget 
Any business on which the mind is set. 

Oh, the drum is full of life ! 

And its stirring pound is rife 
With an inspiration wonderful to break the listless mood 

Of the indolent, and all, 

When its martial echoes fall, 
Like the touch of sudden fire to excite the sluggish blood. 

And this is the song. 

As the soldiers march along, 

Head erect — keeping time 

To the rolling and the rhyme 
Of the quick reiteration of the drummers hollow chime. 

" Fame is eternal — glories supernal, 
Heroes the wreaths shall share, 
Victors the crowns shall wear. 
March on ! 
Brave and true, 

Steady, on ! 
Dare and do ; 
On to the contest whose struggle elates you ! 
On for the conflict where duty awaits you ! 

There is the foe — advance and attack ! 
Drive every enemy — back — back — 

back: 

Who cares for pain or for danger or woe ? 
Here are our colors — and there is the foe ! " 



22 THE READING-CLUB. 

And so begins the fight, 

(God knows how it may end! ) 
But we strive for the right, 

(May God the right defend ! ) 
For country and for home, 
For freedom and for truth, 
And freely to that cause we give the sturdy strength of 

youth, 
And freely in that cause we shed the blood that makes it 

strong, 
While we march to death and glory to the drum's inspiring 
song. 



Again, all is still. 
On the side of the hill 
Lies silent the camp in the shadow of night, 

The soldiers are sleeping ; 
The sentinel walks in the moon's silver light, 

His silent watch keeping. 
Hark ! What is that ? 'tis a step. " Who goes 

there ? " 
No answer — black forms swiftly darken the air ! 
The enemy comes ! awake ! AWAKE ! 
How terrible are the alarms that break 
On the ear of the sleeper, and call him for war ! 

Hear the roll — hear the call — hear the hurried com- 
mand, 

Not a breath — still as death — the regiments stand. 
Forward ! Advance and attack ! Where ? There ! 
See the dark forms through the dew-laden air ! 
Cannons roar — bullets pour — squadrons march, 
Battalions — companies — regiments, charge 1 

And all the red front of the terrible fight 

Glows like the conflict of demons at night. 

Still, hearts are but human, 

Man, born of woman, 
Seeing his brother fall, all his flesh creeps, 
Seeing unheeded fresh wounds all bleeding, 
Sick of the sight of war, shudders and weeps. 



THE READING-CLUB. 23 

And the soldier sheds tears 

On the face of his foe. 
And the drummer is dumb 

In the sight of that woe. 



Now when the hero lies silent in death, 

The end having come, 
Shorn of its echoing glory, what saith 

The dull muffled drum ? 



" Soldier sleep — 
Drum — drum ! 
Soldier, rest — 
Drum — drum ! 
In the breast of the earth whence we come, 

We come ! 
All your toil 

Is done, 
And the fight 

Is won. 
Soldier, sleep — Soldier, rest ! " says the drum, 
" Drum — drum ! " 

And this is the song, as we march along. 
That the hollow drum sings to the gathering throng; 
With the rap, and the tap. and the rolling beat, 
With the sound on the ground of the tramp of feet, 

Keeping step they come, 

With the sounding drum, 
With the rolling and the beating of the drum. 

/. E. Diehenga 



THE BRAVEST BOY IN TOWN. 

He lived in the Cumberland Yalley, 
And his name was Jamie Brown ; 

But it changed one day, so the neighbors say, 
To the " Bravest Boy in Town." 



24 TEE READING-CLUB. 

'Twas the time when the Southern soldiers, 

Under Early's mad command, 
O'er the border made their dashing raid 

From the north of Maryland ; 

And Chambersburg, unransomed, 

In smouldering ruins slept ; 
While up the vale, like a fiery gale, 

The rebel raiders swept. 

And a squad of gray-clad horsemen 
Came thundering o'er the bridge, 

Where peaceful cows in the meadows browse 
At the foot of the great Blue Ridge ; 

And on till they reached the village 

That fair in the valley lay, 
Defenceless then — for its loyal men 

At the front were far away. 

"Pillage and spoil and plunder!" 

This was the fearful word 
That the Widow Brown, in gazing down 

From her latticed window, heard. 

'Neath the boughs of the sheltering oak-tree 

The leader bared his head, 
As left and right, until out of sight, 

His dusty gray-coats sped. 

Then he called " Halloo, within there ! " 

A gentle, fair-haired dame 
Across the floor to the open door 

In gracious answer came. 

" Here, stable my horse, you woman ! " 

The soldier's tones were rude ; 
" Then bestir yourself, and from yonder shelf 

Set out your store of food ! " 

For her guest she spread the table ; 

She motioned him to his place 
With a gesture proud ; then the widow bowed, 

And gently asked a grace. 



THE READING-CLUB. 25 

" ' If thine enemy hunger, feed him ! ' 

I obey, clear Christ," she said. 
A creeping blush, with its scarlet flush, 

O'er the face of the soldier spread. 

He rose. " You have said it, madame ! 

Standing within your doors 
Is the rebel foe ; but as forth they go 

They shall trouble not you nor yours ! " 

Alas for the word of the leader ! 

Alas for the soldier's vow ! 
When the captain's men rode down the glen, 

They drove the widow's cow. 

It was then the fearless Jamie 

Sprang up with flashing eyes, 
And in spite of tears and his mother's fears, 

On the gray mare off he flies. 

Like a wild young Tam O'Shanter 

He plunged with piercing whoop, 
O'er field and brook, till he overtook 

The straggling rebel troop, — 

Laden with spoil and plunder, 

And laughing and shouting still, 
As with cattle and sheep they lazily creep 

Through the dust o'er the winding hill. 

" Oh the coward crowd ! " cried Jamie. 

" There's Brindle ! I'll teach them now ! " 
And with headlong stride, at the captain's side, 

He called for his mother's cow. 

" Who are you, and who is your mother? 

I promised she should not miss ? 
Well ! upon my word, have I never heard 

Of assurance like to this ! " 

" Is your word the word of a soldier ? " 

And the young lad faced his foes, 
As a jeering laugh, in anger half 

And half in sport, arose. 



26 THE READING-CLUB. 

But the captain drew his sabre, 
And spoke with lowering brow, — 

" Fall back into line ! The joke is mine f 
Surrender the widow's cow ! " 

And a capital joke they thought it, 

That a barefoot lad of ten 
Should demand his due — and get it too — 

In the face of forty men. 

And the rollicking rebel raiders 

Forgot themselves somehow, 
And three cheers gave for the hero brave, 

And three for the brindle cow. 

He lived in the Cumberland Valley, 

And his name was Jamie Brown ; 
But it changed that day, so the neighbors say, 

To the " Bravest Boy in Town." 

Emma Huntington Nason, in " Wide Awake.' 



BRER RABBIT AND THE BUTTER. 

" De anemules an' de beastesses," said Uncle Remus, shak- 
ing his coffee around in the bottom of his tin cup, in order 
to gather up all the sugar, " dey kep' on gettin' mo' and mo' 
familious wid wunner nudder, twel bimeby, 'twant long 'fo' 
Brer Babbit, en Brer Fox, en Brer Possum got ter sorter 
bun chin' derperwishions tergedder in de same house. Arter 
while de roof sorter 'gun ter leak, en one day Brer Rabbit, en 
Brer Fox, en Brer Possum 'semble fer ter see ef dey couldn't 
kinder patch her up. Dey had a big day's wuk in front un 
um, en den dey fotch der dinner wid urn. Dey lumped de vit- 
tles up in one pile, en de butter w'at Brer Fox brung dey goes 
en puts in de spring-house fer ter keep cool, en den dey wen' 
ter wuk, en 'twan't long 'fo' Brer Rabbit's stummuck 'gun 
ter sorter growl en pester 'im. Dat butter of Brer Fox's sot 
heavy on his mine, en his mouf water eve'y time he 'mem- 
ber 'bout it. Presen'ly he say ter hisself dat he bleedzd ter 



THE READING-CLUB. 27 

have a nip at dat butter, en den he lay his plans, he did. 
Fus news you know, w'ile dey was all wukkin' 'long, Brer 
Rabbit raise his head quick en fling his years forred en holler 
out, — 

" ' Here I is. Wat you want wid me ? ' en off he went like 
sump'n wuz arter 'im. 

" He sailed 'roun', old Brer Rabbit did, en arter he make 
sho dat nobody ain't foller'n 'im, inter de spring-'ouse he 
bounces, en dar he stays twel he git a bait er butter. Den 
he santer on back en go to wuk. 

" ' Whar you bin ? ' sez Brer Fox, sezee. 

"'I hear my chilluns callin' me,' says Brer Rabbit, sezee, 
'en I hatter go see w'at dey want. My ole 'oman done gone 
en tuck mighty sick,' sezee. 

" Dey wuk on twel bimeby de butter tas'e so good dat ole 
Brer Rabbit want some mo'. Den he raise up his head, he 
did, en holler out, — 

" ' Heyo ! Wait ! I'm a comin' ! ' en off he put. 

" Dis time he stay right smart while, en w'en he git back 
Brer Fox ax him whar he bin. 

" ' I bin ter see my ole 'oman, en she's a sinkin',' sezee. 

" Dreckly Brer Rabbit hear urn callin' 'im ag'in, en off he 
goes, en dis time, bless yo' soul, he gets de butter out so clear 
dat he kin see hisse'f in de bottom er de bucket. He scrape 
it clean en lick it dry, en den he go back ter wuk lookin' 
mo' samer den a nigger w'at de patter-rollers bin had holt 
up. 

" ' How's yo' ole 'oman dis time?' sez Brer Fox, sezee. 

"'I'm oblije ter you, Brer Fox,' sez Brer Rabbit, sezee, 
'but I'm fear'd she's done gone by, now,' en dat sorter make 
Brer Fox en Brer Possum feel in moanin' wid Brer Rabbit. 

" Bimeby, w'en dinner-time come, dey all got out der vit- 
tles, but Brer Rabbit keep on lookin' lonesome, en Brer Fox 
and Brer Possum, dey sorter rustle 'roun' for ter see ef dey 
can't make Brer Rabbit feel sorter splimmy." 

" What is that, Uncle Remus? " asked the little boy. 

" Sorter splammy, hone} T — sorter like he's in a crowd — 
sorter like his ole 'oman ain't dead ez she mout be. You 
know how fokes duz w'en dey gits whar people's a moanin'." 

The little boy didn't know, fortunately for him, and Uncle 
Remus went on, — 

" Brer Fox and Brer Possum rustle roun', dey did, gittin' 
out de vittles, en bimeby Brer Fox say, sezee, — 



28 THE READING-CLUB. 

" ' Brer Possum, you run down to de spring en fetch de 
butter, en I'll sail 'roun' yer en set de table,' sezee. 

" Brer Possum he lope off arter de butter, en dreckly here 
he comes lopin' back, wid his years a trimblin', en his tongue 
a hangin' out. Brer Fox, he holler out, — 

" 'Wat de matter now, Brer Possum? ' sezee. 

"'You all better run yer, fokes,' sez Brer Possum, sezee. 
' De las' drap er dat butter done gone.' 

"' Whar she gone?' sez Brer Fox, sezee. 

" ' Look like she dried up,' sez Brer Possum, sezee. 

" Den Brer Rabbit he look sorter wise, he did, en he up'n 
say, sezee, — 

" ' I speck dat butter melt in somebody's mouf,' sezee. 

"Den dey went down ter de spring wid Brer Possum, en 
sho 'nuff de butter wuz gone. Wile dey was sputin' over 
der wunderment, Brer Rabbit say he see tracks all 'roun' dar, 
en he p'int out dat ef dey'll allgo ter sleep, he kin ketch de 
chap w'at stole de butter. Den dey all lie down, en Brer 
Fox en Brer Possum dey soon drapt off ter sleep ; but Brer 
Rabbit he stay 'wake, en w'en de time come, he raise up easy 
en smear Brer Possum's mouf wid de butter on his paws, en 
den he run off en nibble up de bes' er de dinner w'at dey lef 
layin' out, en den he come back en wake up Brer Fox, en 
show 'im de butter on Brer Possum's mouf. Den dey wake 
Brer Possum up, en tell 'im about it ; but c'ose Brer Possum 
'ny it to de las'. Brer Fox, dough, he's a kinder lawyer, en 
he argafy dis way, — dat Brer Possum wuz de fus one at de 
butter, en de fus one fer ter miss it, en, mo'n dat, dar hung 
de signs on his mouf. , Brer Possum see dat dey got 'im 
jammed up in a cornder, en den he up en say dat de way fer 
ter ketch de man w'at stole de butter is ter bil' a big bresh- 
heap en set her afier, en all hands try ter jump over, en de 
one w'at fall in, den he de chap w'at stole de butter. Brer 
Rabbit and Brer Fox dey bofe 'gree, dey did; en dey whirl 
in en b'il' de bresh-heap, en dey b'il' her high, en dey b'iF 
her wide, en den dey totch her off. W'en she got ter blazin' 
up good, Brer Rabbit he tuck de fus turn. He sorter step 
back, look 'roun' en giggle, en over he went mo' samer den 
a birdflyin'. Den come Brer Fox. He got back little fud- 
der, en spit on his han's, en den lit out en made de jump, en 
he come so nigh gettin' in dat de een' er his tail kotch afier. 
Ain't you never see no fox, honey? " inquired Uncle Remus 
in a tone that implied both conciliation and information. 



TEE READING-CLUB. 29 

The little boy thought probably he had, but he wouldn't 
commit himself. 

" Well, den," continued the old man, " nex' time you see 
one un um, you look right close en see ef de een' er his tail 
ain't white. Hit's des like I tell you. Dey b'ars de skyar 
er dat bresh-heap down ter dis day. Dey er marked — dat's 
w'at dey is — dey er marked." 

" And what about Brother Possum ? " asked the boy. 

" Old Brer Possum, he tuck a runnin' start, he did, en he 
come lumberin' 'long, en he hit — ker blam ! — right in de 
middle er de fier, en dat waz de las' er old Brer Possum." 

" But, Uncle Remus, Brother Possum didn't steal the 
butter after all," said the little boy, who was not at all satis- 
fied with such summary injustice. 

" Dat w'at make I say w'at I cluz, honey. In dis worrul, 
lots er folks is gotter souffer fer udder folkes' sins. Look 
like hit's mighty on wrong; but hit's des dat away. Tribba- 
lashun seem like she's a waitin' roun' de cornder fer ter ketch 
one en all un us, honey." Harris. 



THE LOVES OF A LIFE. 

Love! Love is the flight of the soul towards God, towards 
the great, the sublime, and the beautiful, which are the 
shadow of God upon earth. Love your family, the partner 
of your life, those around you ready to share your joys and 
sorrows, the dead who were dear to you, and to whom you 
were dear. But let your love be the love taught you by 
Dante and by us, — the love of souls that aspire together, 
and do not grovel on the earth in search of a felicity which 
is not the destiny of the creature here to reach ; do not yield 
to a delusion which inevitably would degrade you into ego- 
tism. To love, is to promise, and to receive a promise for 
the future. God has given us love, that the weary soul may 
give and receive support upon the way of life. It is a flower 
which springs up on the path of duty, but which cannot 
change its course. Purify, strengthen, and improve your- 
selves by loving. Ever act — even at the price of increasing 
her earthly trials — so that the sister soul united to your own 
may never need, here or elsewhere, to blush through you or 



30 THE READING-CLUB. 

for you. The time will come when from the height of a 
new life, embracing the whole past and comprehending its 
secret, you will smile together at the sorrows you have 
endured, the trials you have overcome. 

Love your country. Your country is the land where your 
parents sleep, where is spoken that language in which the 
chosen of your heart, blushing, whispered the first word of 
love ; it is the house that God has given you, that, by striv- 
ing to perfect yourselves therein, you may prepare to ascend 
to him. It is your name, your glory, your sign among the 
peoples. Give to it your thought, your counsel, your blood. 
Raise it up, great and beautiful, as foretold by our great 
men. And see that you leave it uncontaminated by any 
trace of falsehood, or of servitude, unprofaned by dismem- 
berment. Let it be one, as the thought of God. You are 
twenty-four millions of men, endowed with active, splendid 
faculties, with a tradition of glory the envy of the nations 
of Europe ; an immense future is before you, your eyes are 
raised to the loveliest heaven, and around you smiles the 
loveliest land in Europe ; you are encircled by the Alps and 
the sea, boundaries marked out by the finger of God for a 
people of giants. And you must be such, or nothing. Let 
not a man of that twenty-four millions remain excluded 
from the fraternal bond which shall join you together; let 
not a look be raised to that heaven, which is not that of a 
free man. Let Rome be the ark of your redemption, the 
temple of your nation. Has she not twice been the temple 
of the destinies of Europe ? In Rome two extinct worlds, 
the Pagan and the Papal, meet each other like the double 
jewels of a diadem ; and you must draw from thence a third 
world, greater than the other two. From Rome, the Holy 
City, the City of Love {Amor), the purest and wisest among 
you, elected by the vote, and strengthened by the inspiration, 
of a whole people, shall give forth the pact that shall unite 
us in one, and represent us in the future alliance of the 
peoples. Until then you have no country, or you have it 
contaminated. 

Love humanity. You can only ascertain your own mis- 
sion from the aim placed by God before humanity at large. 
God has given you your country as cradle, humanity as 
mother, and you can only love your brethren of the cradle 
in loving your common mother. Beyond the Alps, beyond 
the sea, are other peoples, now fighting, or preparing to fight, 



THE READING-CLUB. 3i 

the holy fight of independence, of nationality, of liberty: 
other peoples striving by different routes to reach the same 
goal, — improvement, association, and the foundation of an 
authority which shall put an end to moral anarchy, and link 
again earth to heaven, and which mankind may love and 
obey without remorse or shame. Unite with them, they 
will unite with you. Do not invoke their aid where your 
single arm can suffice to conquer ; but say to them, that the 
hour will shortly sound for a terrible struggle between right 
and blind force, and that in that hour you will ever be found 
with those who have raised the same banner as yourselves. 

And love, young men, love and reverence above every thing 
the ideal. The ideal is the word of God, superior to every 
country, superior to humanity ; it is the country of the spirit, 
the city of the soul, in which all are brethren who believe in 
the inviolability of thought, and in the dignity of our im- 
mortal soul; and the baptism of this fraternity is martyr- 
dom. From that high sphere spring the principles which 
alone can redeem the peoples. Arise for them! and not 
from impatience of suffering, or dread of evil. Anger, 
pride, ambition, and the desire of material prosperity are 
arms common to the peoples and their oppressors ; and, even 
should you conquer with them to-day, you will fall again to- 
morrow : but principles belong to the peoples alone, and their 
oppressors can find no arms to oppose them. Adore enthu- 
siasm. Worship the dreams of the virgin soul, and the vis- 
ions of early youth, for they are the perfume of paradise, 
which the soul preserves in issuing from the handir of its 
Creator. Respect above all things your conscience ; have 
upon your lips the truth that God has placed in your nearts, 
and, while working together in harmony in all that tends 
to the emancipation of our soil, even with those who differ 
from you, yet ever bear erect your own banner, and uolclly 
promulgate your faith. Mazz?ni 



THE PRISONER. 

Closed in by four gray walls, 
Grim, and grimy, and hard ! 

One only break in the slimy dark, 
A window, iron-barred ! 



32 THE READING-CLUB. 

Quivering on tiptoe there, 

I spy at the world without, 
And wearily scan that blue sea-bay, 

Where the white sails glide about. 
I gaze, till my hot eyes ache 

With the changeful, flashing light : 
That billowy blue, so terribly blue ; 

That white, so intensely white ! 
And I step from my trembling hold 

Down on the loathsome floor ; 
Then bruised, half-blinded, and sick, 

I climb, and gaze once more. 

Out of this fearful dun-light, — 

Darkness " made visible," — 
I gaze on the summer sunlight 

Which never visits my cell, — 
Out on yon summer-glory 

Flooding the golden sand ; 
And I sigh for the distant freedom : 

I weep for my far-off land ! 

So I cling to the bars, aud wonder 

If my lot will ever be 
To float in that skifflet yonder, 

Home o'er that tempting sea. 

Oh ! I loathe the foreign bannei, 

With its fluttering, flaunting brag; 
And my soul is sad and weary, 

Heart-sick for the dear old flag ! 
Oh ! could I loose from her moorings, 

Could I reach yon tiny boat, 
With what glad, wild heart-boundings ; 

Away, away I'd float ! 

But the sunbeams lie still and burning, 

On ocean and on land, 
While scarce by one breezy flutter 

Is my burning forehead fanned. 



THE READING-CLUB. 33 

'Tis maddening ! — this awful still, 

Round me in my hollow stone ! 
Though yonder the glad notes thrill, 

I hear not, I hear not one ! 
But out of my terrible silence, 

I can see these voices yonder, 
While over my tugging heart-strings 

Creep echoes, dearer, fonder. 

I ache for liberty, 

Over the far blue sea, 
O'er the blue sea so wide! 
And I hear the angels singing, 

" Keeping time. 
In silver rhyme" 
With that boat so slowly swinging, 
On the restless, heaving tide. 

Ripple, dipple, 

Plashing, dashing, 
The wavelets sleepily lap the shore ; 

Lazily, hazily,- 

Drearily, wearily, 
I cling here, listening o'er and o'er — 

To the sobbing oozing gurgle 

Slushing underneath the keel, 
And the restless, dipping murmur 
Which I cannot know by the outward ear, 
The tide is too far for me to hear, 
But deep in my soul I feel. 

And I see yon boat so slowly swinging: 
I hear the far-off home-bells ringing, 

Ringing through my heart ! 
Sweet bells of home, I must be free : 
Yon skiff shall bear me o'er the sea, 

If but these stanchions part ! 

Then will I dare the tempest's wrath, 
While seeking out the homeward path, 

For liberty's dear sake ; 
And my frail bark shall boldly drift, 
Where mightier ships have passed, and left 

Lines of snow-foam in their wake. 



34 THE READING-CLUE. 

Ha S the iron bars are loosening v 

So ! gently on the floor ! 
I am mad for yon shifting sea, 
Frantic I'll spring to liberty ! 

Now ! there goes one bar more 1 

Another ! And now I'm free ! I'm free ! 
Wide is my path to liberty ; 

For a sailor's foot and hand 
Make light of castle-wall, 
In its rugged fall 

To the golden strand. 

Down ! down ! down ! 
Beneath the castle's frown ! 

Surely, I fell ! 
For blood is flowing, and wounds are wide : 
I know it, I know it, 'tis life's full tide, 

In crimson swell ! 
The boat is empty, I lie on the sand, 
Far from those bells of my own dear land I 
I am dying, alone, but free ! 
Out in God's glorious sun and light, 
Loyal in heart, and true in hand, 
To the royal flag of my native landl 

Dying, but free, 

By the solemn sea ! 
Mother, good-night ! 



THE OLD CANTEEN. 

Send it up to the garret ? Well, no, what's the harm, 
If it hangs like a horseshoe to serve as a charm? 
Had its day ? to be sure. Matches ill with things here I 
Shall I sack the old friend just because it is queer? 
Thing of beauty 'tis not ; but a joy none the less, 
As my hot lips remember its old-time caress, 
And I think on the solace once gurgling between 
My lips from that old battered tin canteen. 



THE READING-CLUB. 3£ 

It has hung by my side in the long, weary tramp ; 

Been my friend in the bivouac, barracks, and camp , 

In the triumph, the capture, advance, and retreat, 

More than light to my path, more than guide to my feet. 

Sweeter nectar ne'er flowed, howe'er sparkling and cold, 

From out chalice of silver or goblet of gold, 

For a Ring or emperor, princess or queen, 

Than to me, from the mouth of that old canteen. 

It has cheered the desponding on many a night, 

Till their laughing eyes gleamed in the camp's fire-light ; 

Whether guns stood at silence, or boomed at short range, 

It was always on duty, though 'twould not be strange 

If in somnolent periods, just after "taps," 

Some colonel or captain disturbed at his naps 

May have felt a suspicion — that spirits unseen 

Had somehow bedeviled that old canteen. 

But I think on the time when in lulls of the strife 
It has called the far look in dim eyes back to life, 
Helped to stanch the quick blood beginning to pour, 
Softened broad, gaping wounds that were stiffened and sore, 
Moistened thin, livid lips, so despairing of breath, 
They could only speak thanks in the quiver of death. 
If an angel of mercy ever hovered between 
This world and the next, 'twas that old canteen. 

Then banish it not, as a profitless thing ; 
Were it hung in a palace, it well might swing, 
To tell in its mute, allegorical way 
How the citizen volunteer won the day* 
How he bravely, unflinchingly, grandly won, 
And how, when the death-dealing work was done, 
'Twas as easy his passion from war to wean 
As his mouth from the lips of the old canteen. 

By and by, when all hate for the rage with the Bars, 
Is forgotten in love for the " Stripes and the Stars," 
When Columbia rules every thing solid and sole 
From her one ship-canal to the ice at the pole, 
When the Grand- Army men have obeyed the last call, 
And the Mayflowers and violets bloom for us all, 
Then, away in some garret, the cobwebs may screen 
My battered, old, cloth-covered tin canteen. 



36 THE READING-CLUB. 



AUNT SOPHRONIA TABOR AT THE 
OPERA. 

" So this is the uproar ? Well, isn't this a monster big 
building? And that chanticleer! It's got a thousand can- 
dles if it has one. It must have taken a sight of tallow. to 
have run them all!" — "They are make-believe candles, 
aunt, with little jets of gas inside to give the effect of real 
ones." — "I want to know! Well, I only wish that your 
uncle Peleg was here. You're sure, Louisa, that this is a 
perfectly proper place ? " — " Why, aunt, you don't suppose 
that papa would consent to our attending the opera if it 
were other than a perfectly proper place, do you ? " — " No, 
no, dear ; I suppose not. But somehow you city folks look 
upon such things differently from what we do who live in 
the country. Dear suz ! Louisa, do look way up there in the 
tiptop of the house ! Did you ever see such a sight of people ? 
Why, excursion-trains must have run from all over the State. 
Massy, child ! There's a woman forgot her bonnet ! Do just 
nudge her, Louisa, and tell her of it. My Eliza Ann cut 
just such a caper as that one Sunday last summer, — got 
clean into the meeting-house, and half way down the middle 
aisle, before she discovered it, and the whole congregation 
a-giggiing and a-tittering. Your cousin Woodman Harrison 
shook the whole pew ; and I don't know but what he'd 'a' 
hawhawed right out in meeting if his father hadn't 'a' given 
him one of his looks. As 'twas, I was afeard he'd bust a 
blood-vessel. Just speak to that poor creature, Louisa. 
She'll feel awfully cut up when she finds it out, and 'tis a 
Christian duty to tell her." — "Why, aunt, don't you know 
that she is in full dress, and left her bonnet at home inten- 
tionally? See how beautifully her hair is arranged. l r ou 
don't suppose she wanted to cover up all that elegance, do 
you ? " — " Come bareheaded a-purpose ! Well, I do declare ! 
But, Louisa, where's the horse-chestnut?" — "The horse- 
chestnut, aunt ? " — " Yes, child ; you said something or 
other about a horse-chestnut playing a voluntary or some- 
thing of that sort." — "Oh, the orchestra! Yes, I remem- 
ber. Don't you see those gentlemen in front of the stage ? " 
— " Them men with the fiddles and the bass-viols? " — " Yes. 
Well, they compose the orchestra, and the orchestral part of 
this opera is particularly fine." — "I want to know ! Belong 



THE READING-CLUB, 37 

to the first families, I suppose. They are an uncommon 
good-looking set of men. Is Mrs. Patte a furrener?" — 
"Yes; she's a mixture of Spanish and Italian. She was 
born in Madrid, but came to the United States when only 
five years of age, and remained here until she was nearly 
seventeen. There, aunt; there's the bell, and the curtain 
will rise in a minute. Yes ; see, there it goes." — " Louisa ! " 
— " Sh — ! listen. I want you to hear Signor Monti. He is 
considered a very fine bass." — " But. Louisa, oughtn't we 
to stand up during prayer-time ? " — " You forget, aunt, that 
this is only a play, and not a temple-." — " Dear suz ! I only 
wish your uncle Peleg was here. Somehow it seems kinder 
unchristian to be play-acting worship." — - " Why, aunt, 
there's no need of your feeling so conscience-stricken. Lots 
of church-people come to the opera. ' It isn't like ihe thea- 
tre, you know. It's more — more — er — well, I can't just 
express it, aunt. But, anyway, people who discountenance 
the theatre, especially during Lent, approve of the opera." — 
"But, Louisa, what is the matter? La sakes, child! let's 
get out as spry as ever w T e can ! The theatre is all on fire. 
Hurry, Louisa! Wish that your uncle Peleg" — " Sh — 
aunt; do sit down. It isn't a fire. It's only the people 
applauding because Patti is on the stage. Don't you see 
her?" — "Sakes alive! Is that it? I thought we was all 
afire, or Wiggin's flood had come. So that is Mrs. Patte, 
Well, I declare for it ! she's as spry as a cricket, and no mis- 
take. Why, Louisa, how old is she? She looks scarcely 
out of her teens." — "Oh, aunt, you must not be so practi- 
cal, and ask such personal questions. Ladies don't always 
want their ages known; but. between ourselves, she's over 
forty." — "Is it possible ? There, they're at it again. What 
is the matter now? '* — " Why, Scalchi has appeared. Don't 
you see ? " — " What, that dapper little fellow a-bowing and 
a-scraping and a-smirking! Is that Mr. Scalchi?" — "That's 
Madame Scalchi, aunt; and she's taking the part of Ar- 
saces. the commander of the Assyrian army, you know." — 
"Louisa, are you sure that this is a perfectly proper place? 
I only wish Peleg was here, for then I shouldn't feel so sort 
a-skerry like and guilty." — "Now, aunt, we mustn't speak 
another word till the opera is through, because we disturb 
the people." — "I suppose we do; but, whenever any thing 
happens, you nudge me, and I'll nudge you ; or we can 
squeeze hands, — that's the way Peleg and I do when we go 



38 THE READING-CLUB. 

to the lyceum. It's sorter social, and everybody can hear 
just as well." Soon outrang the glorious voice. "Bravo! 
bravo ! bravo ! " echoed from all parts of the house. " Hoo- 
ray ! " — " Why, Aunt Tabor ! sit down." — " If Peleg were 
only here! Hip, hip" — "Aunt, in pity's name keep still! 
Don't get so excited." — "Well, I never! The sweat's just 
a-rolling off me, and I am as weak as a rag-baby. I wish I 
had my turkey-tail. This mite of a fan of yours don't give 
w T ind enough to cool a mouse." — "Now, aunt, do keep quiet. 
You'll hear better, and won't get so warm." — "Well, dear, 
I suppose you are right. But didn't that sound like an 
angel-choir ? " — " 'Twas certainly very fine.. One thing is 
sure : you've heard Patti at her best." — "I'm so glad I came; 
and if Peleg was only along ! But, there, I hain't going to 
speak again till the uproar is over." And so the opera went 
on, when, suddenly: " Louisa Allen, what are them half-nude 
statutes a-standing up in the back there? Don't they real- 
ize that the whole congregation can see them? and haven't 
they any modesty?" — "Why, aunt, that's the ballet." — 
" The what? " — " The ballet, aunt. Look, look ! there they 
come. Isn't that the very poetry of " — " Louisa Sophronia 
Tabor Allen, just you pick up your regimentals, and follow 
me ; and that quick, too." — " But, auntie" — "You needn't 
auntie me. Just get your duds together, and we'll travel. 
Thank goodness your uncle Peleg Josiah Tabor is not here ! 
Don't let me see you give as much as a glance to where those 
graceless nudities are, or, big as you are, I'll box your ears." 
— "Why, aunt" — "Louisa, I only wish I had my thick- 
est veil, for I am positively ashamed to be caught in this 
unchristian scrape. Come, and don't raise your eyes. There, 
thank goodness, we're in pure air at last ! " — " Why, aunt, 
I thought you were enjoying the opera!" — "The uproar, 
Louisa ? 1 have nothing to say agin the uproar. Them 
voices would grace a celestial choir. This I. say with all 
reverence. But that side show ! I wouldn't have had my 
Eliza Ann, nor my Woodman Harrison, 'a' witnessed what 
we've come near a-witnessing for a thousand-dollar bill. 
No, not for a ten-thousand bill. And I am so thankful 
that your uncle Peleg was not here ! Somehow, Louisa, I 
feel as if I'd fallen like the blessed Lucifer out of the 



THE READING-CLUB. 39 



NEVER TOO LATE. 

There is a good and a bad. in the wayside inns 

On the highways of our lives, 
And man can never be free from sins, 

No matter how hard he strives ; 
Yet even when down destruction's grade 

Our thorny pathways trend, 
In spite of a thousand errors made, 

"It is never too late to mend." 



There are crosses heavy for men to bear, 

And passions to conquer too ; 
There are joys and woes that each must share 

Before the journey is through ; 
But men may be poor for honor's sake, 

And truth and right defend, 
And hope will never this promise break, — 

" It is never too late to mend." 



'Tis never too late for a noble deed ; 

For, blessed by the angels' tears, 
It plants in the breasts of men a seed 

That will grow in after years ; 
And words of kindness, of hope, and cheer, 

Will always comfort lend : 
We must live for love, and banish fear, — 

" It is never too late to mend." 



It is never too late to mend, my lad, 

Xo matter what people say ; 
And no man's nature is wholly bad, 

Even if old and gray : 
And in our journey toward the grave, 

Until we reach the end, 
There is time to change, and time to save, — 

" It is never too late to mend. " 

Ernest McGoffty. 



40 THE READING-CLUB. 



A FIGHT WITH A TROUT. 

We had been hearing for weeks of a small lake in the 
heart of the forest, some ten miles from our camp, which 
was alive with trout, — unsophisticated, hungry trout : the 
inlet to it was described as stiff with them. In my imagi- 
nation I saw them lying there in ranks and rows, each a foot 
long, three tiers deep, a solid mass. The lake had never 
been visited, except by stray sable hunters in the winter, 
and was known as Unknown Pond. I determined to ex- 
plore it fully, expecting that it would prove to be a delusion, 
as such haunts of the trout usually are. Confiding my pur- 
pose to Luke, we secretly made our preparations, and stole 
away from the shanty one morning at daybreak. Each of 
us carried a boat, a pair of blankets, a sack of bread, pork, 
and maple sugar ; while I had my case of rods, reel, and 
book of flies, and Luke had an axe and the kitchen utensils. 
We think nothing of loads of this kind in the woods. 



A couple of hours before sundown we reached the lake. 
If I live, to my dying day I shall never forget its appear- 
ance. . . . But what chiefly attracted my attention, and 
amused me, was the boiling of the water, the bubbling and 
breaking, as if the lake were a vast kettle with fire under- 
neath. A tyro would have been astonished at this com- 
mon phenomenon ; but sportsmen will at once understand 
me, when I say that the water boiled with the breaking trout. 
I began casting, and had got out perhaps fifty feet of line, 
and gradually increased it to a hundred. It is not difficult 
to learn to cast, but it is difficult to learn not to jerk off the 
flies at every throw. Finally, in making a shorter cast, I 
saw a splash where the leader fell, and gave an excited jerk. 
The next instant I perceived the game, and did not need the 
unfeigned " dam" of Luke to convince me that I had snatched 
his felt hat from his head, and deposited it among the lilies. 
Discouraged by this, we whirled about, and paddled over to 
the inlet, where a little ripple was visible in the tinted light. 
Instantly, upon casting, there was a rush, a swirl. I struck, 
and " Got him, by — " Never mind what Luke said I got 
him by. " Out on a fly," continued that irreverent guide ; 
but I told him to back water, and make for the centre of 



THE READING-CLUB. 41 

the lake. The trout, as soon as he felt the prick of the 
hook, was off like a shot, and took out the whole of the line 
with a rapidity that made it smoke. " Give him the butt," 
shouted Luke. It is the usual remark in such an emergency. 
I gave him the butt ; and, recognizing the fact and my spirit, 
the trout sank to the bottom, and sulked. It is the most 
dangerous mood of the trout, for you cannot tell what he 
will do next. We reeled up a little, and waited five min- 
utes for him to reflect. A tightening of the line enraged 
him, and he soon developed his tactics. Coming to the sur- 
face, he made straight for the boat faster than I could reel 
in, and evidently with hostile intentions. 

" Look out for him ! " cried Luke, as he came flying in the 
air. I evaded him by dropping flat in the bottom of the 
boat : and when I picked my traps up he was spinning across 
the lake as if he had a new idea, but the line was still fast. 
He did not run far. I gave him the butt again, a thing he 
seemed to hate, even as a gift. In a moment the evil-minded 
fish, lashing the water in his rage, was coming back again, 
making straight for the boat as before. Luke, who was 
used to these encounters, having read them in the writings 
of travellers he had accompanied, raised his paddle in self- 
defence. The trout left the water about ten feet from the 
boat, and came directly at me with fiery eyes, his speckled 
sides flashing like a meteor. I dodged as he whisked by 
with a vicious slap of his bifurcated tail, and nearly upset the 
boat. The line was, of course, slack ; and the danger was, 
that he would entangle it about me, and carry away one leg. 
This was evidently his game ; but I untangled it, and only 
lost a breast-button or two by the swift-moving string. The 
trout plunged into the water with a hissing sound, and went 
away again with all the line on the reel. More butt, more 
indignation on the part of the captive. The contest had 
now been going on for half an hour, and I was getting ex- 
hausted. We had been back and forth across the lake, and 
around and around the . lake. What I feared was, that the 
trout would start up the inlet, and wreck us in the bushes. 
But he had a new fancy, and began the execution of a 
manoeuvre which I had never read of. Instead of coming 
straight toward us. he took a large circle, swimming rapidly, 
and gradually contracting his orbit. I reeled in, and kept 
my eye on him. Round and round he went, narrowing the 
circle. I began to suspect the game, which was to twist my 



42 THE READING-CLUB. 

head off. When he had reduced the radius of his circle to 
about twenty-five feet, he struck a tremendous pace through 
the water. It would be false modesty in a sportsman to say 
that I was not equal to the occasion. Instead of turning 
around with him, as he expected, I stepped to the bow, braced 
myself, and let the boat swing. Round went the fish, and 
round we went like a top. I saw a line of Mount Marcys 
all around the horizon ; the rosy tint of the west made a 
broad bank of pink along the sky above the tree-tops ; the 
evening star was a perfect circle of light, a hoop of gold in 
the heavens. We whirled and reeled, and reeled and whirled . 
I was willing to give the malicious beast butt and line and 
all, if he would only go the other way for a change. 

When I came to myself, Luke was gaffing the trout at the 
boat-side. After we had got him in and dressed him, he 
weighed three-quarters of a pound ! Fish always lose by 
being "■ got in and dressed." It is best to weigh them while 
they are in the water. The only really large one I ever 
caught, got away with my leader when I first struck him. 
He weighed ten pounds. 

Charles Dudley Warner. 



AN ORDER FOR A PICTURE. 

O good painter ! tell me true, 

Has your hand the cunning to draw 
Shapes of things that you never saw? 

Ay? Well, here is an order for you. 

Woods and cornfields, a little brown, — 
The picture must not be over-bright, — 
Yet all in the golden and gracious light 

Of a cloud, when the summer sun is down. 

Alway and alway, night and morn, 
Woods upon woods, with fields of corn 
Lying between them, not quite sere, 
And not in the full, thick, leafy bloom, 
When the wind can hardly find breathing room 
Under their tassels ; cattle near, 



THE READING-CLUB. 43 

Biting shorter the short green grass, 
And a hedge of sumach and sassafras, 
With bluebirds twittering all around, — 
(Ah, good painter, you can't paint sound ! ) — 

These, and the house where I was born, 
Low and little, and black and old, 
With children, many as it can hold, 
All at the windows, open wide, — 
Heads and shoulders clear outside, 
And fair young faces all a-blush : 

Perhaps you may have seen, some day, 

Roses crowding the selfsame way, 
Out of a wilding wayside bush. 

Listen closer. When you have done 

With woods and cornfields and grazing herds, 

A lady the loveliest ever the sun 
Looked down upon, you must paint for me. 
Oh, if I only could make you see 

The clear blue eyes, the tender smile, 
The sovereign sweetness, the gentle grace, 
The woman's soul, and the angel's face 

That are beaming on me all the while ! — 

I need not speak these foolish words : 

Yet one word tells you all I would say, — 
She is my mother : you will agree 

That all the rest may be thrown away. 

Two little urchins at her knee 

You must paint, sir : one like me, — 

The other with a clearer brow, 

And the light of his adventurous eyes 

Flashing with boldest enterprise : 
At ten years old he went to sea, — 

God knoweth if he be living now, — 

He sailed in the good ship Commodore : 
Xobody ever crossed her track 
To bring us news, and she never came back. 

Ah, 'tis twenty long years and more 
Since that old ship went out of the bay 

With my great-hearted brother on her deck ; 

I watched him till he shrank to a speck, 
An& his face was toward me all the way. 



44 THE READING-CLUB. 

Bright his hair was, a golden brown, 

The time we stood at our mother's knee : 

That beauteous head, if it did go down, 
Carried sunshine into the sea! 

Out in the fields one summer night 

We were together, half afraid 

Of the corn-leaves' rustling, and of the shade 
Of the high hills stretching so still and far, - 
Loitering till after the low little light 

Of the candle shone through the open door, 
And over the haystack's pointed top, 
All of a tremble, and ready to drop, 

The first half-hour, the great yellow star, 

That we, with staring, ignorant eyes, 
Had often and often watched to see 

Propped and held in its place in the skies 
By the fork of a tall red mulberry-tree, 

Which close in the edge of our flax-field grew, 
Dead at the top, — just one branch full 
Of leaves, notched round, and lined with wool, 

From which it tenderly shook the dew 
Over our heads, when we came to play 
In its handbreadth of shadow, day after day : — 

Afraid to go home, sir ; for one of us bore 
A nest full of speckled and thin-shelled eggs, — 
The other, a bird, held fast by the legs, 
Not so big as a straw of wheat : 
The berries we gave her she wouldn't eat, 
But cried and cried, till we held her bill, 
So slim and shining, to keep her still. 

At last we stood at our mother's knee. 

Do you think, sir, if you try, 

You can paint the look of a lie ? 

If you can, pray have the grace 

To put it solely in the face 
Of the urchin that is likest me : 

I think 'twas solely mine, indeed: 

But that's no matter, — paint it so ; 

The eyes of our mother (take good heed) 
Looking not on the nestf ul of eggs, 
Nor the fluttering bird, held so fast by the legs, 



THE READING-CLUB. 45 

But straight through our faces down to our lies, 
And oh, with such injured, reproachful surprise ! 

I felt my heart bleed where that glance went, as though 

A sharp blade struck through it. 

You, sir, know, 
That you on the canvas are to repeat 
Things that are fairest, things most sweet, — 
Woods and cornfields and mulberry-tree, — 
The mother, — the lads, with their bird, at her knee: 

But oh that look of reproachful woe ! 
High as the heavens your name I'll shout, 
If you paint me the picture, and leave that out. 

Alice Cary. 



FORCIBLE ENTRY. 

It happened out on South Hill, nine thousand miles from 
Maple Street. • The man's wife had taken up the carpet in 
the bath-room the day before, and put all the crooked tacks 
in a saucer, and put it on a chair. It is a marvellous thing 
why women will always save tacks that come out of the car- 
pet; although it is a matter of record, that, out of the count- 
less millions of tacks thus laid by, not one was ever used 
again, save in the soles of the bare masculine feet. They — ■ 
the tacks, not the feet — are stowed away in saucers up on 
high shelves, in dark closets, and in all sorts of out-of-the- 
way places. And on these dusty perches they remain until 
the corroding hand of time, and dust, and spider-webs, and 
dead flies, and flakes of whitewash, and*old bits of resin, and 
chunks of sealing-wax, and old steel pens, and similar accu- 
mulations, have filled the saucer to overflowing, when it is 
taken down and thrown away by the woman, who petulantly 
wonders who under the sun put all that trash in the saucer, 
and stuck it up there. And nine times out of ten she charges 
the crime on her husband. The tenth time she declares 
it was the hired girl. And always, before the saucer of 
crooked tacks is stowed away on the shelf, it is stuck around 
for three or four days on chairs and in corners of the room, 
spilling out occasional tacks on the carpet of every bedroom 
in the house, which fill the masculine soles with agony, and 
darken the air of the bedroom with inartistic but forcible 



46 THE READING-CLUB. 

profanity. Nothing is so painful as a crooked tack in the 
middle of one's foot. A broken heart doesn't hold half so 
much anguish, and a boil is a blessing in comparison. 

This man who lives so far from Maple Street had a splen- 
did bath ; and when he had rubbed his skin into a glow with 
a crash-towel as rough as a pig's back, he gathered his socks, 
and, backing up to the only chair in the room, sat down to 
put them on. 

Every tack in that saucer saw him coming down. 

Every last tack smiled in anticipation of the denowment, 
and stood on its head, and reached for him. 

Every last solitary individual and collective tack fetched 
him, got him, and held to him. 

He dropped his socks, and rose from that chair with an 
abruptness that knocked his head against the ceiling. He 
came down, and waltzed wildly round and round the room, 
shrieking and yelling, gyrating madly with his arms, while 
his eyes stuck out so far they hung down. He howled until 
the neighbors besieged the house, yet he wouldn't let any of 
them in. At last his yells died away; but they could hear 
his breath hiss between his set teeth, while at short intervals 
would come a yell, supplemented by the remark, " There's 
another out ! " In about three-quarters of an hour the 
yells ceased entirely, the window was opened, and a shower 
of tacks fell over the assembled and wondering multitude ; 
while a large saucer skimmed across the street, and smashed 
against the side of a house opposite. 

Nobody knows what ails the man, for he will not tell any 
one a thing about it : but he takes his meals off the mantel- 
piece all the same ; and, when he sits, he sits down on his hip, 
for all the world as though he wore a "tied-back." But he 
doesn't. It's a tacked-back that ails him. 

/. M. Bailey. 



WENDELL PHILLIPS. 

The power to discern right amid all the wrappings of in- 
terest, and all the seductions of ambition, was singularly his. 
To choose the lowly; for their sake to abandon all favor, 
all power, all comfort, all ambition, all greatness, — that 
was his genius and glory. He confronted the spirit of the 



THE READING-CLUB. 47 

nation and of the age. I had almost said, he set himself 
against nature, as if he had been a decree of God overrid- 
ing all these other insuperable obstacles. That was his 
function. Mr. Phillips was not called to be a universal ora- 
tor, any more than he was a universal thinker. In literature 
and in history he was widely read; in person most elegant ; 
in manners most accomplished ; gentle as a babe ; sweet as 
a new-blown rose ; in voice, clear and silvery. He was 
not a man of tempests ; he was not an orchestra of a hun- 
dred instruments ; he was not an organ, mighty and com- 
plex. The nation slept, and God wanted a trumpet, sharp, 
far-sounding, narrow, and intense ; and that was Mr. Phil- 
lip.-. The long roll is not particularly agreeable in music 
or in times of peace ; but it is better than flutes or harps 
when men are in a great battle, or are on the point of it. 
His eloquence was penetrating and alarming. He did not 
flow as a mighty gulf-stream ; he did not dash upon the 
continent as the ocean does; he was not a mighty rushing 
river. His eloquence was a flight of arrows, sentence after 
sentence, polished, and most of them burning. He shot 
them one after the other, and where they struck they slew; 
always elegant, always awful. I think scorn in him was as 
fine as I ever knew it in any human being. He had that 
sublime sanctuary in his pride that made him almost in- 
sensitive to what would by other men be considered ob- 
loquy. It was as if he said every day, in himself, " I am 
not what they are firing at. I am not there, and I am not 
that. It is not against me. I am infinitely superior to 
what they think me to be. They do not know me." It was 
quiet and unpretentious, but it was there. Conscience and 
pride were the two concurrent elements of his nature. 

He lived to see the slave emancipated, but not by moral 
means. He lived to see the sword cut the fetter. After 
this had taken place, he was too young to retire, though too 
old to gather laurels of literature, or to seek professional 
honors. The impulse of humanity was not at all abated. 
His soul still flowed on for the great under-masses of man- 
kind ; though, like the Nile, it split up into diverse mouths, 
and not all of them were navigable. 

After a long and stormy life, his sun went down in 
glory. All the English-speaking people on the globe have 
written among the names that shall never die, the name of 
that scoffed, detested, mob-beaten Wendell Phillips. Bos- 



48 THE READING-CLUB. 

ton, that persecuted and would have slain him, is now ex- 
ceedingly busy in building his tomb, and rearing his statue. 
The men that would not defile their lips with his name are 
to-day thanking God that he lived. 

He has taught a lesson that the young will do well to 
take heed to, — the lesson that the most splendid gifts and 
opportunities and ambitions may be best used for the dumb 
and the lowly. ' His whole life is a rebuke to the idea that 
we are to climb to greatness by climbing up on the backs 
of great men : that we are to gain strength by running with 
the currents of life ; that we can from without add any thing 
to the great within that constitutes man. He poured out 
the precious ointment of his soul upon the feet of that dif- 
fusive Jesus who suffers here in his poor and despised ones. 
He has taught the young ambitions, too, that the way to 
glory is the way, oftentimes, of adhesion simply to princi- 
ple ; and that popularity and unpopularity are not things to 
be known or considered. Do right and rejoice, if to do 
right will bring you into trouble, rejoice that you are counted 
worthy to suffer with God and the providences of God in 
this world. 

He belongs to the race of giants, not simply because he 
was in and of himself a great soul, but because he bathed 
in the providence of God, and came forth scarcely less than 
a god ; because he gave himself to the work of God upon 
earth, and inherited thereby, or had reflected upon him, 
some of the majesty of his Master. When pygmies are all 
dead, the noble countenance of Wendell Phillips will still 
look forth, radiant as a rising sun, — a sun that will never 
set. He has become to us a lesson, his death an example, 
his whole history an encouragement to manhood, — to heroic 
manhood. Henry Ward Beecher. 



AUNT PARSONS'S STORY. 

I told Hezekiah — that's my man. People mostly call 
him Deacon Parsons, but he never gets any deaconing from 
me. We were married — " Hezekiah and Amariah " — that's 
going on forty years ago, and he's jest Hezekiah to me, and 
nothin' more. 



THE READING-CLUB. 49 

Well, as I was saying, says I, " Hezekiah, we aren't right. 
I am sure of it." And he said, "Of course not. We are 
poor sinners, Amy; all poor sinners." And I said, "Heze- 
kiah, this 'poor-sinner' talk has gone on long enough. I 
suppose we are poor sinners, but I don't see any use of being- 
mean sinners ; and there's one thing I think is real mean." 

It was jest after breakfast : and, as he felt poorly, he 
hedn't gone to the shop yet; and so I had this little talk 
with him to sort o' chirk him up. He knew what 1 was com- 
in' to, for we hed had the subject up before. It was our lit- 
tle church. He always said, " The poor people, and what 
should we ever do '? " And I always said, " AVe never shall 
do nothin' unless we try." And so, when I brought the 
matter up in this way, he just began bitin' his toothpick, 
and said, " What's up now ? Who's mean ? Amariah, we 
oughtn't to speak evil one of another." Hezekiah always 
says "poor sinners," and doesn't seem to mind it; but when 
I occasionally say " mean sinners," he somehow gits oneasy. 
But I was started, and 1 meant to free my mind. 

So I said, says I, "I was goin' to confess our sins. Dan'l 
confessed for all his people, and I was confessin' for all our 
little church. 

" Truth is," says I, " ours is alius called one of the 'feeble 
churches, ' and I am tried about it. I've raised seven chil- 
dren, and at fourteen months old every boy and girl of 'em 
could run alone. And our church is fourteen years old," 
says I ; " and it can't take a step yet without somebody to 
hold on by. The Board helps us ; and General Jones, good 
man, he helps us, — helps too much, I think, — and so we live 
along ; but we don't seem to get strong. Our people draw 
their rations every year as the Indians do up at the agency, 
and it doesn't seem sometimes as if they ever thought of 
doing any thing else. 

" They take it so easy ! " I said. " That's what worries me. 
I don't suppose we could pay all expenses ; but we might act 
as if we wanted to, and as if we meant to do all we can. 

"I read," says I, "last week about the debt of the Board; 
and this week, as I understand." says I, " our application is 
going in for another year, and no particular effort to do any 
better; and it frets me. I can't sleep nights, and I can't 
take comfort Sundays. I've got to feelin' as if we were a 
kind of perpetual paupers. And that was what I meant 
when I said, ' It is real mean ! ' I suppose I said it a little 



50 THE READING-CLUB. 

sharp," says I, " but I'd rather be sharp than flat any day ; 
and if we don't begin to stir ourselves, we shall be flat 
enough before long, and shall deserve to be. It grows on 
me. It has jest, been 'Board, Board, Board,' for fourteen 
years, and I'm tired of it. I never did like boardin'," says 
I; " and even if we were poor, I believe we might do some- 
thing toward settin' up housekeepin' for ourselves. 

" Well, there's not many of us — about a hundred, I believe ; 
and some of these is women-folks, and some is jest- girls 
and boys. And we all have to work hard, and live close ; 
but," says I, " let us show a disiDosition, if nothing more. 
Hezekiah, if there's any spirit left in us, let us show some 
sort of a disposition." 

And Hezekiah had his toothpick in his teeth, and looked 
down at his boots, and rubbed his chin, as he always does 
when he's goin' to say somethin'. " I think there's some of 
us that shows a disposition." 

Of course I understood that hit, but I kep' still. I kep' 
right on with my argument ; and I said, " Yes, and a pretty 
bad disposition it is. It's a disposition to let ourselves be 
helped when we ought to be helping ourselves. It's a dispo- 
sition to lie still and let somebody carry us. And we are 
growing up cripples — only we don't grow. 

" 'Kiah," says I, " do you hear me ?" Sometimes when I 
want to talk a little he jest shets his eyes, and begins to rock 
himself back and forth in the old arm-chair ; and he was 
doin' that now. So I said, " 'Kiah, do you hear ? " And he 
said, "Some!" and I went on. "I've got a proposition," 
says I. And he sort o' looked up, and said, " Hev you ? 
Well, between a disposition and a proposition, I guess the 
proposition might be better." 

He's awful sarcrostic, sometimes. But I wasn't goin' to 
get riled, nor thrown off the track ; so I jest said, "Yes; do 
you and I git two shillin's' worth apiece, a week, out o' that 
blessed little church of ourn, do you think ? " says I. " Cos, 
if we do, I want to give two shillin's a week to keep it goin' ; 
and I thought maybe you could do as much." So he said he 
guessed we could stand that; and I said, " That's my propo- 
sition, and I mean to see if we can't find somebody else that'll 
do the same. It'll show disposition, anyway." 

" Well, I suppose you'll hev your own way," says he : 
"you most always do." And I said, "Isn't it most allers a 
good way?" Then I brought out my subscription paper. 



THE READING-CLUB. 51 

I had it all ready. I didn't jest know how to shape it, but I 
knew it was something about " the sums set opposite our 
names; " and so I drawed it up, and took my chances. " You 
must head it," says I, "because you're the oldest deacon; 
and I must go on next, because I am the deacon's wife ; and 
then I'll see some of the rest of the folks." 

So' Kiah sot dowm, and put on his specs, and took his pen, 
but did not write. " What's the matter ? " says I. And 
he said, " I'm sort o' 'shamed to subscribe two shillin's. I 
never signed so little as that for any thing. I used to give 
that to the circus when I was nothin' but a boy, and I ought 
to do more than that to support the gospel. Two shillin' a 
week ! Why, it's only a shillin' a sermon, and all the 
prayer-meetin's throwed in. I can't go less than fifty cents, 
I am sure." So down he went for fifty cents; and then I 
signed for a quarter, and then my sunbonnet went onto my 
head pretty lively ; and says I, " Hezekiah, there's some cold 
potato in the pantry, aud you know where to find the salt ; 
so, if I am not back by dinner-time, don't be bashful, help 
yourself." And I started. 

I called on the Smith family first. I felt sure of them. 
And they were just happy. Mr. Smith signed, and so did 
Mrs. Smith ; and Long John, he came in while we were talk- 
in', and put his name down ; and then old Grandma Smith, 
she didn't want to be left out ; so there was four of 'em. 
I've allers found it a great thing in any good enterprise to 
enlist the Smith family. There's a good many of 'em. Next, 
I called on the Joslyns, and next on the Chapins, and then 
on the Widdy Chad wick, and so I kept on. 

I met a little trouble once or twice, but not much. There 
was Fussy Furber ; and bein' trustee, he thought I was out of 
my spear, he said ; and he wanted it understood that such 
work belonged to the trustees. " To be sure," says I : " I'm 
glad I've found it out. I wish the trustees had discovered 
that a leetle sooner." Then there was sister Puffy that's 
got the asthma. She thought we ought to be lookin' after 
" the sperritooalities." She said we must get down before 
the Lord. She didn't think churches could be run on money. 
But I told her I guessed we should be jest as spiritual to look 
into our pocketbooks a little, and I said it was a shame to 
be 'tarnally beggin' so of the Board. 

She looked dredf ul solemn when I said that, and I almost 
felt as I'd been committin' profane language. But I hope 



52 THE READING-CLUB. 

the Lord will forgive me if I took any thing in vain. I did 
not take my call in vain, I tell yon. Mrs. Puffy is good, only 
she alius wanted to talk so pious ; and she put down her two 
shillin's, and then hove a sigh. Then I found the boys at 
the cooper-shop, and got seven names there at one lick ; and 
when the list began to grow, people seemed ashamed to say 
no ; and I kept gainin' till I had jest an even hundred, and 
then I went home. 

Well, it was pretty well towards candle-light when I got 
back, and I was that tired I didn't know much of any thing. 
I've washed, and I've scrubbed, and I've baked, and I've 
cleaned house, and I've biled soap, and I've moved; and I 
'low that a'most any one of that sort of thing is a little 
exhaustin'. But put your bakin' and movin' and bilin' soap 
all together, and it won't work out as much genuine tired 
soul and body as one day with a subscription paper to sup- 
port the gospel. So when I sort o' dropped into a chair, and 
Hezekiah said, "Well?" I was past speakin' ; and I put my 
check apron up to my face as I hadn't done since I was a 
young, foolish girl, and cried. I don't know what I felt so 
bad about : I don't know as I did feel bad. But I felt cry, 
and I cried. And 'Kiah, seein' how it was, felt kind o' sorry 
for me, and set some tea a-steepin' ; and when I had had my 
drink with weepin', I felt better, I handed him the sub- 
scription paper, and he looked it over as if he didn't expect 
any thing; but soon he began saying, "I never! I never! " 
And I said, " Of course you didn't: you never tried. How 
much is it ? " — " Why, don't you know ? " says he. " No," I 
said : " I ain't quick in figures, and I hadn't time to foot it 
up. I hope it will make us out this year three hundred dol- 
lars or so." 

"Amy," says he, "you're a prodigy — a prodigal, I may 
say — and you don't know it. A hundred names at two 
shillin' each gives us twenty-five dollars a Sunday. Some 
of 'em may fail, but most of 'em is good ; and there is ten, 
eleven, thirteen, that sign fifty cents. That'll make up what 
fails. That paper of yourn 'II give us thirteen hundred dol- 
lars a year ! " I jumped up like I was shot. " Yes," he says, 
" we sha'n't need any thing this year from the Board. This 
church, for this year at any rate, is self-supporting.'" 

We both sot down and kep' still a minute, when I said 
kind o' softly, " Hezekiah," says I, " isn't it about time for 
prayers?" I was just chokin' ; but, as he took down the 



THE READING-CLUB. 53 

Bible, he said, " I guess we'd had better sing somethin'." I 
nodded like, and he just struck in. We often sing at prayers 
in the morning; but now it seemed like the Scripter that 
says, "He giveth songs in the night." 'Kiah generally likes 
the solemn tunes, too ; and we sing " Show pity, Lord," a 
great deal; and this mornin' we had sung "Hark ! from the 
tombs a doleful sound," 'cause 'Kiah was not feelin' very 
well, and we wanted to chirk up a little. 

So I just waited to see what metre he'd strike to-night; 
and would you believe it ? I didn't know that he knew any 
sech tune. But off he started on "Joy to the world, the 
Lord is come." I tried to catch on ; but he went off lickerty- 
switch, like a steam-engine, and I couldn't keep up. I was 
partly laughin' to see 'Kiah go it, and partly crying again, 
my heart was so full ; so I doubled up some of the notes, and 
jumped over the others ; and so we safely reached the end. 

But, I tell you, Hezekiah prayed. He allers prays well; 
but this was a bran' new prayer, exactly suited to the occa- 
sion. And when Sunday come, and the minister got up and 
told what had been done, and said, " It is all the work of 
one good woman, and done in one day," I just got scared, 
and wanted to run. And when some of the folks shook 
hands with me after meetin', and said, with tears in their 
eyes, how I'd saved the church ; and all that, I came awful 
nigh gettin' proud. But, as Hezekiah says, "we're all poor 
sinners ; " and so I choked it back. But I am glad I did it ; 
and I don't believe our church will ever go boarding any 
more. Presbyterian Journal. 



THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. 

It was the ninth of April — historic month and day! 
The day of Lee's surrender — a score of years away. 
The sick-room veiled in midnight; no sound disturbed the 

air, 
Except the sufferer's breathing, reclining in his chair. 

The savior of his country lay face to face with Death, 
"Whose lean and hungry fingers confined his choking breath : 
A panoramic vision illumed his dreamy sight, — 
The vision of a lifetime, from dawn to waning light. 



54 THE READING-CLUB. 

A child of sunny summers, beside his mother's knee, 
A youth of earnest purpose, his half-shut e} T elids see ; 
A grave and silent soldier, the pride of the parade, 
He rides, as if a Cossack, 'gainst Montezuma's blade ; 

A sturdy, sunburnt farmer, within his rustic home, 
Beside his blazing hearthstone, who never cares to roam 
Except where boon companions, with pipes and foaming 

beer, 
Tell tales of wild adventure, sing songs of hearty cheer. 

But hark ! the bugle calleth ! Its clarions wake the farms, — 
•' Your country is in danger ! To arms, my sons, to arms ! " 
The streets are black with soldiers ; their bristling bayonets 

gleam, 
A hundred thousand marching, as flows a mountain stream. 

The dreamer in his vision descries a battle-field ; 
He hears the cannon echo, he sees battalions yield ; 
He sees the blue-coats rally, he sees the gray-coats fall, 
The ghastly dead and dying, the " stars and bars " their pall 

Along the queen of rivers, against, her trembling shore, 
Volcanic flames are belching, and volleying thunders roar : 
Hot shot and shell are crashing, while lurid smoke and flame 
Are from a fortress leaping, — a fortress known to fame. 

Again the picture changes ! The Capitol is seen, 

Where rolls the broad Potomac through the banks of ever 

green : 
Not now fraternal kindness disports in festive garb, 
But brother, armed 'gainst brother, spurs on his fiery barb. 

Brigades and solid squadrons are marching out of camp ; 
He hears their stirring music, he hears their steady tramp : 
The Wilderness the arena, a nation's life the prize, 
Their watchword, " On to Richmond ! " He hears their 
battle-cries. 

For days, for weeks together, repulsed, defeated, slain, 
As sands restrain old ocean, their ranks roll back again, 
Till rising higher, higher, with loud, exultant roar, 
The foaming, raging billows sweep o'er the crumbling shore. 



THE READING-CLUB. 00 

Now he sees a planter's dwelling in Appomattox vale : 
The earth is piled in breastworks, 'tis rent with iron hail ; 
What villages of canvas for men in blue or gray, 
What lines of halting columns, in grave or grim array ! 

Within appear two chieftains, of heroes full a score, 

The victors and the vanquished: thank God, the war is 

o'er ! 
" The olive-branch shall shield you, the sun of peace shall 

shine ! 
This flag," so says the leader, " this aegis still is thine ! " 

No lion mien and bearing, no eagle's eye of pride ; 

As modest as a schoolboy, the conqueror seeks to hide — , 

Hide his speechless joy of triumph by generous act and 

word, — 
He feeds the conquered army! The beggar seems the lord. 

The reveille has sounded ; 'twill never sound again ! 
For days, in martial splendor, three hundred thousand men, 
From Yicksburg and from Shiloh, Antietam and the sea, 
From Shenandoah's Valley and Gettysburg's green lea, — 

Those cannoneers of Ruin, that hurricane of horse, 

With Pestilence behind them, and Carnage in their course ; 

Those, those — when Pickett's cohorts were charging wave 

on wave, — 
That stood like granite ledges, the bravest of the brave ; 

With drums, with banners flying, with triumph in each eye, 
The grand review are marching. He sees them passing by 
As saw in dream, Napoleon, from that triumphal arch, 
That night in phantom phalanx his splendid heroes march. 

'Twas like a shield all gory, that sun of Austerlitz ! 
Xo bloody, ghostly phantom before our hero flits ! 
Ye idols of the people, who lead an army well, 
Shall wield a nation's sceptre, in capitols shall dwell ! 

Past ages grim and hoary their victors loved to crown : 
The flaming sword of conquest still wins sublime renown. 
All echo and re-echo the glories of the brave ; 
All, all, a grateful country ! bedew the soldier's grave. 

C. G. Fall. 



56 THE READING-CLUB. 



OVER THE LEFT. 

Their deposits were left over night in the bank, — 

In a bank without whisper of fault : 
The amounts to their credit were placed on the books, 

And were left over night in the vault. 

To their credit, I say it, the bank was locked tight, 

Guarding thus against fire and theft ; 
A patrol on the walk, and a new 'lectric light, 

Throwing beams to the right and the left. 



Just here the cashier he left over night, 

Taking all but the house and the soil ; 
And the long and the short of the story is this, — 

He was too long of stocks — short of oil. 

A receiver was called, and he looked o'er the wreck, 
And received those who called — thus bereft. 
" Have you nothing left over ? " they timidly ask : 
He answers, " Yes, over the left." 

W. C. Dornin. 



THE SEMINOLE'S REPLY. 

Blaze, with your serried columns ! 

I will not bend the knee ! 
The shackles ne'er again shall bind 

The arm which now is free. 
I've mailed it with the thunder, 

When the tempest muttered low ; 
And where it falls, ye well may dread 

The lightning of its blow ! 

I've scared ye in the city, 
I've scalped ye on the plain ; 

Go, count your chosen, where they fell 
Beneath my leaden rain ! 



THE READING-CLUB. 57 

I scorn your proffered treaty ! 

The pale-face I defy ! 
Revenge is stamped upon my spear, 

And blood my battle-cry ! 

Some strike for hope of booty, 

Some to defend their all — 
I battle for the joy I have 

To see the white man fall : 
I love, among the wounded, 

To hear his dying moan, 
And catch, while chanting at his side, 

The music of his groan. 

Ye've trailed me through the forest, 

Ye've tracked me o'er the stream ; 
And struggling through the everglade, 

Your bristling bayonets gleam : 
But I stand as should the warrior, 

With his rifle and his spear ; 
The scalp of vengeance still is red, 

And warns ye, " Come not here ! " 

I loathe ye in my bosom, 

I scorn ye with mine eye ; 
And I'll taunt ye with my latest breath, 

And fight ye till I die ! 
I ne'er will ask ye quarter, 

And I ne'er will be your slave ; 
But I'll swim the sea of slaughter, 

Till I sink beneath its wave. 



THE DUTCHMAN'S SERENADE. 

Vake up, my schveet ! Yake up, my lof e ! 
Der moon dot can't been seen abofe. 
Yake oud your eyes, und dough it's late, 
I'll make you oud a serenate. 



58 THE READING-CLUB. 

Der shtreet dot's kinder dampy vet, 
Und dhere vas no goot blace to set ; 
My fiddle's getting oud of dune, 
So blease get vakey wery soon. 

O my lof e ! my lof ely lof e ! 
Am you avake ub dhere abofe, 
Feeling sad und nice to hear 
Schneider's fiddle schrabin near ? 

Veil, anyvay, obe loose your ear, 
Und try to saw if you kin hear 
From dem bedclose vat you'm among, 
Der little song I'm going to sung : 



O lady, vake ! Get vake ! 

Und hear der tale I'll tell ; 
Oh, you vot's schleebin' sound ub dhere, 

I like you pooty veil! 

Your plack eyes dhem don't shine 
Ven you'm ashleep — so vake ! 

(Yes, hurry up, und voke up quick, 
For gootness cracious sake !) 

My schveet imbatience, lofe, 

I hobe you vill oxcuse : 
I'm singing schveetly (dhere, py Jinks ! 

Dhere goes a shtring proke loose !) 

O putif ul, schveet maid ! 

Oh , vill she ef er voke ? 
Der moon is mooning — (Jimminy ! dhere 

Anoder shtring vent proke !) 

Oh, say, old schleeby head ! 

(Now I vas getting mad — 
I'll holler now, und I don't care 

Uf I vake up her dad !) 



THE READING-CLUB. 59 

I say, you schleeby, vake ! 

Vake oud ! Vake loose ! Vake ub \ 
Fire! Murder! Police! Vatch! 

Oh, cracious ! do vake ub ! 



Dot girl she schleebed — dot rain it rained, 
Und I looked shtoopid like a fool, 

Vhen mit my fiddle I shneaked off 
So vet unci shlobby like a mool ! 



SCENE FROM "INGOMAR." 

CHARACTERS. 

Ingomar. Leader of a band of Alemanni. 
Parthenia. A Greek girl. 

{Parthenia clasps her hands before her face, and stands sob- 
bing in the foreground.) 
Ingoinar. ( Who has been standing on a rock looking at the 
proceedings of his folloicers.) 
No violence ! Ho ! how he runs ! and now 
He stops and cries again ! Poor fearful fool ! 
It must be strange to fear : now, by my troth, 
I should like to feel, for once, what 'tis to fear ! 
But the girl — {Leaning forward.) Ha ! do I see right ? 

you weep. \_To Parthenia. 

Is that the happy temper that you boast? 
Par. Oh, I shall never see him more ! 
Ing. What ! have we 
For a silly old man, got now a foolish 
And timid weeping girl? I have had enough 
Of tears. 

Par. Enough, indeed, since you but mock them ! 
I will not — no, I'll weep no more. 

[She quickly dries her eyes, and retires to the back- 
ground. 
Ing. That's good ! come, that looks well ; 
She is a brave girl j she rules herself, and if 
She keep her word, we have made a good exchange — 

1 Parthenia's father having been taken prisoner by Ingomar's followers, 
Parthenia voluntarily offers herself as hostage, while her father returns to 
Massilia to raise his ransom. Her offer has been accepted, and her father 
released. 






60 THE READING-CLUB. 

" I'll weep no more ! " Aha ! I like the girl. 
And if — Ho ! whither goest thou ? 

[To Parthenia, who is going off with two goblets. 
Par. Where should I go ? to yonder brook, to cleanse 
the cups. 

Ing. No ! stay and talk with me. 

Par. I have duties to perform. [Going. 

Ing. Stay — I command you, slave ! 

Par. I am no slave ! your hostage, but no slave. 
I go to cleanse the cups. [Exit l. 

Ing. Ho ! here's a self-willed thing — here is a spirit ! 

[Mimicking her. 
" I will not, I am no slave ! I have duties to perform ! 
Take me for hostage ! " and she flung back her head 
As though she brought with her a ton of gold! 
" I'll weep no more," — Aha ! an impudent thing. 
She pleases me ! I love to be opposed; 
I love my horse when he rears, my dogs when they snarl, 
The mountain torrent, and the sea, when it flings 
Its foam up to the stars ; such things as these 
Fill me with life and joy. Tame indolence 
Is living death ! the battle of the strong 
Alone is life ! 

[During this speech Parthenia has returned with the cups 
and a bundle of field flowers. She seats herself on a 
piece of rock in front. 

Ing. Ah ! she is here again. {He approaches her, and Uans 
over heron the rock.) What art thou making there? 

Par. I? garlands. 

Ing. Garlands ? 

{Musing.) It seems to me as I before had seen her 
In a dream ! How ! Ah, my brother ! — he who died 
A child — yes, that is it. My little Folko — 
She has his dark-brown hair, his sparkling eye : 
Even the voice seems known again to me ; 
I'll not to sleep — I'll talk to her. [Returns t* Mr. 

These you call garlands, 
And wherefore do you weave them ? 

Par. For these cups. 

Ing. How ? 

Par. Is it not with you a custom ? With us 
At home, we love to intertwine with flowers 
Our cups and goblets. 



THE READING-CLUB. 61 

Ing. What use is such a plaything ? 

Par. Use ? They are beautiful; that is their use. 
The sight of them makes glad the eye ; their scent 
Refreshes, cheers. There ! 

(Fastens the half -finished garland round a cup and 
presents it to him.) Is not that, now, beautiful ? 

Ing. Ay — by the bright sun ! That dark-green mixed 
Up with the gay flowers ! Thou must teach oar women 
To weave such garlands. 

Par. That is soon done : thy wife 
Herself shall soon weave wreaths as well as I. 

Ing. (Laughing heartily.) My wife ! my wife ! a woman 
Dost thou say? 
I thank the gods, not I. This is my wife — 

[Pointing to his accoutrements. 
My spear, my shield, my sword ; let him who will 
Waste cattle, slaves, or gold, to buy a woman; 
Not I — not I ! 

Par. To buy a woman ? — how ? 

Ing. What is the matter? why dost look so strangely? 

Par. How ! did I hear aright? bargain for brides 
As you would slaves — buy them like cattle ? 

Ing. Well, I think a woman fit only for a slave. 
We follow our own customs, as you yours. 
How do you in your city there? 

Par. Consult our hearts. 

Massilia's free-born daughters are not sold, 
But bound by choice with bands as light and sweet 
As these I hold. Love only buys us there. 

Ing. Marry for love — what ! do you love your husbands ? 

Par. Why marry else ? 

Ing. Marry for love ; that's strange ! 
I cannot comprehend. I love my horse, 
My dogs, my brave companions — but no woman ! 
What dost thou mean by love — what is it, girl? 

Par. What is it ? 'Tis of all things the most sweet — 
The heaven of life — or, so my mother says, 
I never felt it. 

Ing. Never ? 

Par. Xo, indeed. [Looking at garland. 

Now look how beautiful ! Here would I weave 
Red flowers if I had them. 

Ing. Yonder there, 

In that thick wood they grow. 



62 THE READING-CLUB. 

Par. How sayest thou ? 

{Looking off.) Oh, what a lovely red ! Go, pluck me some. 

Ing. {Starting at the suggestion.} I go for thee? the 
master serve the slave ! 

[Gazing on her with increasing interest. 
And yet, why not ? I'll go — the poor child's tired. 

Par. Dost thou hesitate ? 

Ing. No, thou shalt have the flowers 
As fresh and dewy as the bush affords. \_He goes off, R. • 

Par. {Holding out the wreath.) 
I never yet succeeded half so well. 
It will be charming ! Charming ? and for whom ? 
Here among savages 1 no mother here 
Looks smiling on it — I am alone, forsaken ! 
But no, I'll weep no more ! No, none shall say I fear. 

Re-enter Ingomar, with a bunch of flowers, and slowly ad- 
vancing towards Parthenia. 

Ing. {Aside.) The little Folko, when in his play he wanted 
Flowers or fruit, would so cry " Bring them to me ; 
Quick ! I will have them — these 1 will have or none ; " 
Till somehow he compelled me to obey him, 
And she, with the same spirit, the same fire — 
Yes, there is much of the bright child in her. 
Well, she shall be a little brother to me ! 
There are the flowers. [He hands her the flowers. 

Par. Thanks, thanks ! Oh, thou hast broken them 
Too short off in the stem ! 

[She throws some of them on the ground. 

Ing. Shall I go and get thee more ? 

Par. No : these will do. 

Ing. Tell me now about your home — I will sit here, 
Near thee. 

Par. Not there : thou art crushing all the flowers. 

Ing. {Seating himself at her feet.) 
Well, well ; I will sit here, then. And now tell me, 
What is your name ? 

Par. Parthenia. 

Ing. Parthenia ! 

A pretty name ! and now, Parthenia, tell me 
How that which you call love grows in the soul ; 
And what love is: 'tis strange, but in that word 
There's something seems like yonder ocean — fathomless. 

Par. How shall I say ? Love comes, my mother says, 



THE READING-CLUB. 68 

Like flowers in the night — reach me those violets «*= 

It is a flame a single look will kindle, 

But not an ocean quench. 

Fostered by dreams, excited by each thought,-, 

Love is a star from heaven, that points the way 

And leads us to its home — a little spot 

In earth's dry desert, where the soul may rest — 

A grain of gold in the dull sand of life — 

A foretaste of Elysium ; but when 

Weary of this world's woes, the immortal gods 

Flew to the skies, with all their richest gifts, 

Love staid behind, self-exiled for man's sake ! 

Ing. I never yet heard aught so beautiful ! 
But still I comprehend it not. 

Par. Nor I. 

For I have never felt it ; yet I know 
A song my mother sang, an ancient song, 
That plainly speaks of love, at least to me. 
How goes it ? Stay — 

[Slowly, as trying to recollect. 

" "What love is, if thou wouldst he taught, 
Thy heart must teach alone, — 
Two souls with but a single thought, 
Two hearts that beat as one. 

And whence comes love ? like morning's light, 

It conies without thy call ; 
And how dies love ? — A spirit bright, 

Love never dies at all ! " 

And when — and when — 

[Hesitating as if unable to continue. 
Ing. Go on. 
Par. I know no more. 
Ing. {Impatiently.) Try — try ! 
Par. I cannot now ; but at some other time 
I may remember. 

Ing. (Somewhat authoritatively.) Now, go on, I say. 
Par. (Springing up in alarm.) Not now, I want more 
roses for my wreath ! 
Yonder they grow, I will fetch them for myself. 
Take care of all my flowers and the wreath ! 

[Throws the flowers into Ingomar's lap and runs off. 



64 THE READING-CLUB. 

Ing. {After a pause, without changing his position, speaking 
to himself in deep abstraction.) 

" Two souls with but a single thought, 
Two hearts that beat as one." 

Maria Lovett's translation from the German. 



CICELY AND THE BEARS. 

I. 

" Oh, yes ! Oh, yes ! Oh, yes ! ding-dong ! " 

The bellman's voice is loud and strong; 

So is his bell : " Oh, yes ! ding-dong ! " 

He wears a coat with golden lace ; 

See how the people of the place 

Come running to hear what the bellman says ! 

" Oh, yes ! Sir Nicholas Hildebrand 

Has just returned from the Holy Land, 

And freely offers his heart and hand — 

Oh, yes ! Oh, yes ! Oh, yes ! ding-dong ! " 

All the women hurry along, 

Maids and widows, a clattering throng. 

" Oh, sir, you are hard to understand ! 

To whom does he offer his heart and hand ? 

Explain your meaning, we do command ! " 

" Oh, yes ! ding-dong! you shall understand! 

Oh, yes ! Sir Nicholas Hildebrand 

Invites the ladies of this land 

To feast with him, in his castle strong, 

This very day at three. Ding-dong ! 

Oh, yes! Oh, yes! Oh, yes! ding-dong!" 

Then all the women went off to dress, 

Mary, Margaret, Bridget, Bess, 

Patty, and more than 1 can guess. 

They powdered their hair with golden dust, 

And bought new ribbons — they said they must- 

But none of them painted, we will trust. 

Long before the time arrives, 

All the women that could be wives 

Are dressed within an inch of their lives. 



THE READING-CLUB. 65 

Meanwhile Sir Nicholas Hiklebrand 
Had brought with him from the Holy Land 
A couple of bears — Oh, that was grand ! 
He tamed the bears, and they loved him true : 
Whatever he told them they would do — 
Hark ! 'tis the town-clock striking two 1 

II. 

Among the maidens of low degree 
The poorest of all was Cicely — 
A shabbier girl could hardly be. 
" Oh, I should like to see the feast, 
But my frock is old, my shoes are pieced, 
My hair is rough ! " — (It never was greased.) 
The clock struck three ! She durst not go ! 
But she heard the band, and, to see the show, 
Crept after the people that went in a row. 
When Cicely came to the castle gate, 
The porter exclaimed, " Miss Shaggypate, 
The hall is full, and you come too late !." 
Just then the music made a din, 
Flute, and cymbal, and culverin, 
And Cicely, with a squeeze, got in. 
Oh, what a sight ! Full fifty score 
Of dames that Cicely knew, and more, 
Filling the hall from dais to door ! 
The dresses were like a garden bed, 
Green and gold, and blue and red — 
Poor Cicely thought of her tossy head ! 
She heard the singing — she heard the clatter — - 
Clang of flagon and clink of platter — 
But, oh, the feast was no such matter ! 
For she saw Sir Nicholas himself, 
Raised on a dais just like a shelf. 
And fell in love with him — shabby elf ! 
Her heart beat quick ; aside she stepped : 
Under the tapestry she crept, 
Tousling her tossy hair, and wept ! 
Her cheeks were wet, her eyes were red. 
" Who makes that noise ? " the ladies said ; 
" Turn out that girl with the shaggy head ! " 



66 THE READING-CLUB. 



III. 

Just then there was heard a double roar, 

That shook the place, both wall and floor : 

Everybody. looked to the door. 

It was a roar, it was a growl ; 

The ladies set up a little howl, 

And flapped and clucked like frightened fowl. 

Sir Hildebrand for silence begs — 

In walked the bears on their hinder legs, 

Wise as owls, and merry as grigs ! 

The dark girls tore their hair of sable ; 

The fair girls hid underneath the table ; 

Some fainted ; to move they were not able. 

But most of them could scream and screech — 

Sir Nicholas Hildebrand made a speech — 

" Order, ladies, I do beseech ! " 

The bears looked hard at Cicely, 

Because her hair hung wild and free — 

" Belated to us, miss, you must be ! " 

Then Cicely, filling two plates of gold 

As full of cherries as they could hold, 

Walked up to the bears, and spoke out bold : 

" Welcome to you ! and to you Mr. Bear ! 

Will you take a chair ? will you take a chair ? 

This is an honor, we do declare ! " 

Sir Hildebrand strode up to see, 

Saying, " Who may this maiden be ? 

Ladies, this is the wife for me ! " 

Almost before they could understand, 

He took up Cicely by the hand, 

And danced with her a saraband. 

Her hair was rough as a parlor broom ; 

It swung, it swirled all round the room — 

Those ladies were vexed, we may presume. 

Sir Nicholas kissed her on the face, 

And set her beside him on the dais, 

And made her the lady of the place. 

The nuptials soon they did prepare, 

With a silver comb for Cicely's hair : 

There were bands of music everywhere, 

And in that beautiful bridal show 

Both the bears were seen to go 



THE READING-CLUB. 67 

Upon their hind legs to and fro ! 
Now every year on the wedding-day 
The boys and girls come out to play, 
And scramble for cherries as they may. 
With a cheer for this and the other bear, 
And a cheer for Sir Nicholas, free and fair, 
And a cheer for Cis, of the tossy hair — 
With one cheer more (if you will wait) 
For every girl with a curly pate, 
Who keeps her hair in a proper state. 
Sing bear's grease ! curling- irons to sell ! 
Sing combs and brushes ! sing tortoise-shell ! 
Oh, yes ! ding-dong ! the crier, the bell ! 
Isn't this a pretty tale to tell ? 

Littiput Levee. 



A HOWL IN ROME. 

It had been a day of triumph in Capua. Lentulus, re- 
turning with victorious eagles, had amused the populace 
with the sports of the amphitheatre to an extent hitherto 
unknown, even in that luxurious city. A large number of 
people from the rural districts had taken advantage of half- 
rates on the railroad, and had been in town watching the 
conflict in the arena, listening to the infirm, decrepit ring- 
joke, and viewing the bogus sacred elephant. 

The shouts of revelry had died away. The last loiterer 
had retired from the free-lunch counter, and the lights in 
the palace of the victor were extinguished. The restless 
hyena in the Roman menagerie had sunk to rest, and the 
jSTumidian lion at the stock-yards had taken out his false 
teeth for the night. The moon, piercing the tissue of fleecy 
clouds, tipped the dark waters of the Tiber with a wavy, 
tremulous light. The dark -browed Roman soldier moved on 
his homeward way, the sidewalk flipping up occasionally, and 
hitting him in the small of the back. Xo sound was heard, 
save the low sob of some retiring wave as it told its story to 
the smooth pebbles on the beach, or the unrelenting boot- 
jack as it struck the high board fence in the back yard, just 
missing the Roman tomcat in its mad flight ; and then all 
w T as still as the breast when the spirit has departed. Anon 
the half-stifled Roman snore would steal in upon its deathly 



63 THE READING-CLUB. 

stillness, and then die away like a hot biscuit in the hands 
of the hired man. 

In the green room of the amphitheatre a little band of 
gladiators were assembled. The foam of conflict yet lin- 
gered on their lips, the scowl of battle yet hung upon their 
brows, and the large knobs on their profiles indicated that 
it had been a busy day with them in the arena. 

There was an embarrassing silence of about five minutes, 
when Spartacus, gently laying his chew of tobacco on the 
banister, stepped forth and addressed them : — 

" Mr. Chairman, ladies and gentlemen, — Ye call me chief, 
and ye do well to call him chief who for twelve long years 
has met in the arena every shape of man or beast that the 
broad empire of Rome could furnish, and yet has never 
squealed. I do not say this egotistically, but simply to show 
that I am the star thumper of the entire outfit. 

" If there be one among you who can say that ever in 
public fight, or private brawl, my actions did belie my words, 
let him stand forth and say it, and I will spread him around 
over the arena till the coroner will have to soak him out of 
the ground with benzine. If there be three in all your com- 
pany dare face me on the bloody sands, let them come, and I 
will construct upon their physiognomy such cupolas and cor- 
nices and dormer-windows and Corinthian capitals and en- 
tablatures, that their own masters would pass them by in 
the broad light of high noon unrecognized. 

" And yet I was not always thus, — a hired butcher, — the 
savage chief of still more savage men. My ancestors came 
from Sparta, Wisconsin, and settled among the vine-clad 
hills and citron-groves of Syracuse. My early life ran as 
quiet as the clear brook by which I sported. Aside from 
the gentle patter of my angel mother's slipper on the bustle 
of my overalls, every thing moved along with the still and 
rhythmic flow of goose-greese. My boyhood was one long, 
happy summer day. We stole the Roman muskinelon, and 
put split sticks on the tail of the Roman dog, and life was a 
picnic and a hallelujah. 

"When, at noon, I led the sheep beneath the shade, and 
played ' Little Sallie Waters ' on my shepherd's flute, there 
was another Spartan youth, the son of a neighbor, to join 
me in the pastime ; we led our flocks to the same pasture, 
and together picked the large red ants out of our doughnuts. 

" One evening, after the sheep had been driven into the 



THE READING-CLUB. 69 

corral, and we were all seated beneath the ' Bammygilead '- 
tree that shaded our cottage, my grandsire, an old man, was 
telling of Marathon and Leuctra, and Dr. Mary Walker, and 
other great men ; and how a little band of Spartans at Mil- 
waukee had stood off the police, and how they fled away into 
the mountains, and there successfully held an annual pass 
over the C. M. & St. P. Railway. Held it for a year ! I did 
not know then what war was; but my cheeks burned, I knew 
not why, and I thought what a glorious thing it would be to 
leave the reservation, and go upon the war-path. But my 
mother kissed my throbbing temples, and bade me go and 
soak my head, and think no more of those old tales and sav- 
age wars. That very night the Romans landed on our 
coasts. They pillaged the whole country, burned the agency 
buildings, demolished the ranche, rode off the stock, tore 
down the smoke-house, and ran their war horses over the 
cucumber-vines. 

" To-day I killed a man in the arena ; and when I broke 
his helmet clasps, and looked upon him, behold ! he was my 
friend. The same sweet smile was on his face that I had 
known when in adventurous boyhood we bathed in the 
glassy lake by our Spartan home, and he had tied my shirt 
into 1,752 dangerous and difficult knots. He knew me, 
smiled faintly, told me always to tell the truth, and to travel 
by the Milwaukee & St. Paul road, and then ascended the 
golden stair. I begged of the Praetor that I might be 
allowed to bear away the body, and have it packed in ice, and 
shipped to his relatives in Sparta, Wisconsin ; but he couldn't 
see it. As upon my bended knees, amid the dust and blood 
of the arena. I begged this poor boon, and the Praetor 
answered, 'Let the carrion rot. There are no noblemen but 
Romans and Ohio men. Let the show go on. Bring forth 
the bobtail lion from Abbyssinia.' And the assembled 
maids and matrons and the rabble shouted in derision, and 
told me to 'brace up ; ' and they threw peanut-shells at me, 
and told me to ' cheese it,' with other Roman flings which 
I do not now recall. 

" And so must you, fellow gladiators, and so must I, die 
like dogs. To-morrow we are billed to appear at the Col- 
iseum at Rome ; and reserved seats are even now being sold 
for our moral and instructive performance, while I am speak- 
ing to you. 

"Ye stand here like giants as ye are; but to-morrow some 



70 TEE READING-CLUB. 

Roman dude will pat your red brawn, and bet his shekels 
upon your blood. 

" O Rome ! Rome ! Thou hast been a tender nurse to me. 
Thou hast given to that gentle, timid, shepherd lad, who 
never knew a harsher tone than a flute note, muscles of iron, 
and a heart of steel. Thou hast taught him to drive his 
sword through plaited mail and links of rugged brass, and 
warm it in the stomach of his foe ; to gaze into the glaring- 
eyeballs of a fierce Numidian lion, even as the smooth- 
cheeked senator looks into the laughing eyes of the chamber- 
maid. And he shall pay thee back till the rushing Tiber is 
red as frothing wine, and in its deepest ooze thy life-blood 
lies curdled. Ye doubtless hear the gentle murmur of my 
bazoo. 

" Hark ! Hear ye yon lion roaring in his den ? 'Tis three 
days since he tasted flesh, but to-morrow he will have gladia- 
tor on toast, and don't you forget it ; and he will fling your 
vertebrae around his cage, and wipe his nose on your cluster- 
ing hair. 

"If ye are brutes, then stand here like fat oxen waiting 
the butcher's knife. If ye are men, arise and follow me ! 
Strike down the warden and the turnkey, slide our baggage 
out the third story window of the amphitheatre, overpower 
the public, and cut for the tall timber ! 

" O comrades ! Warriors ! Gladiators ! If we be men, let 
us die like men, beneath the blue sky, and by the still waters, 
and be buried according to Hoyle, instead of having our shin- 
bones polished off by Numidian lions, amid the groans and 
hisses of the populace here in Rome, New York. Let us 
break loose, chaw the ear of the night watchman, buy our 
tickets via the Chicago, Milwaukee, & St. Paul Railway, and 
go to farming in Dakota ! Then if the fierce Roman don't 
like our style, he knows our post-office address." 

Bill Nye. 



JAMIE DOUGLAS. 

It was in the days when Claverhouse 
Was scouring moor and glen, 

To change, with fire and bloody sword, 
The faith of Scottish men. 



THE READING-CLUB. 71 

They had made a covenant with the Lord 

Firm in their faith to bide, 
Nor break to him their plighted word, 

Whatever might betide. 



The sun was well-nigh setting, 
When o'er the heather wild, 

And up the narrow mountain path, 
Alone there walked a child. 



He was a bonny, blithesome lad, 

Sturdy and strong of limb : 
A father's pride, a mother's love, 

Were fast bound up in him. 

His bright blue eyes glanced fearless round, 

His step was firm and light : 
What was it underneath' his plaid 

His little hands grasped tight ? 

It was bannocks which, that very morn, 

His mother made with care, 
From out her scanty store of meal, 

And now, with many a prayer, 

Had sent by Jamie, her ane boy, 

A trusty lad and brave, 
To good old Pastor Tanxmus Roy, 

Now hid in yonder cave, 

And for whom the bloody Claverhouse 

Had hunted long in vain, 
And swore they would not leave that glen 

Till old Tarn Rov was slain. 



So Jamie Douglas went his way 
With heart that knew no fear : 

He turned the great curve in the rock, 
Nor dreamed that death was near. 



72 THE JR.EADING-CLUB. 

And there were bloody Claverhouse men 
Who laughed aloud with glee, 

When, trembling now within their power, 
The frightened child they see. 

He turns to flee, but all in vain : 

They drag him back apace 
To where their cruel leader stands, 

And set them face to face. 

The cakes concealed beneath his plaid 
Soon tell the story plain — 

" It is old Tam Roy the cakes are for ! " 
Exclaimed the angry man. 

" Now guide me to his hiding-place, 

And I will let you go." 
But Jamie shook his yellow curls, 

And stoutly answered, " No ! " 

" I'll drop you down the mountain side, 

And there upon the stones 
The old gaunt wolf and carrion crow 

Shall battle for your bones." 

And in his brawny, strong right hand 

He lifted up the child, 
And held him where the clefted rocks 

Formed a chasm deep and wild. 

So deep it was, the trees below 
Like stunted bushes seemed. 

Poor Jamie looked in frightened maze .* 
It seemed some horrid dream. 



He looked at the blue sky above, 
Then at the men near by : 

Had they no little' boys at home, 
That they could let him die ? 






THE READING-CLUB. 73 

But no one spoke, and no one stirred, 

Or lifted hand to save 
From such a fearful, frightful death, 

The little lad so brave. 

"It is woful deep ! " he shuddering cried; 

"But, oh ! I canna tell ! 
So drop me down, then, if you will — 

It is nae so deep as hell ! " 

A childish scream, a faint, dull sound — 

O Jamie Douglas true ! 
Long, long within that lonely cave 

Shall Tain Roy wait for you. 

Long for your welcome coming- 
Waits the mother on the moor, 

And watches and calls, " Come, Jamie, lad," 
Through the half-open door. 

No more adown the rocky path 

You come with fearless tread, 
Or, on moor or mountain, take 

The good man's daily bread. 

But up in heaven the shining ones 

A wond'rous story tell, 
Of a child snatched up from a rocky gulf 

That is nae so deep as hell. 

And there before the great white throne, 

Forever blessed and glad, 
His mother dear and old Tarn Roy 

Shall meet their bonny lad. 



STORY OF A BEDSTEAD. 

It was night. 

The boarding-house was wrapt in tenebrous gloom, faintly 
tinted with an odor of kerosene. 



74 THE READING-CLUB. 

Suddenly there arose on the air a yell, followed by wild 
objurgations and furious anathemas. 

Then there was a clanking and rattling, as of an over- 
turned picket-fence, and another yell with more anathemas. 
The fatted boarders listened, and, ghostly clad, tip-toed 
along to Buffum's room, — he of Buffum & Bird, second-hand 
furniture dealers. As they stood there, there was a whiz, 
a grinding, a rattling and a bang, and more yells. They 
consulted, and knocked on the door. 

" Come in." 

" Open it." 

"I can't." 

Convinced that Buffum was in his last agony, they knocked 
in the door with a bedpost. 

The sight was ghastly. Clasped between two sturdy, 
though slender, frames of walnut, Buffum, pale as a ghost, 
was six feet up in the air. He couldn't move. He was 
caught like a bear in a log-trap. 

" What on earth is it? " they said. 

"Bedstead — combination. New patent I was tellin' you 
about," gasped Buffum. 

His story was simple, though tearful. He had brought it 
home that day; and, after using it for a writing-desk, had 
opened it out and made his bed. He was going peacefully 
to dream-land, when he rolled over, and accidentally touched 
a spring. The faithful invention immediately became a 
double crib, and turned Buffum into a squalling wafer. 
Then he struggled, and was reaching around for the spring, 
when the patent bedstead thought it would show off some 
more, and straightened out, and shot up in the air, and was a 
clothes-horse. Buffum said he didn't like to be clothes, and 
he would give the thing to anybody that would get him out. 
They said they would try. They didn't want any such fire- 
extinguisher as that for their trouble, but they would try. 
They inspected it cautiously. They walked all around it. 
Then the commission-merchant laid his little finger on the 
top end of it. The thing snorted and reared as if it had 
been shot, slapped over with a bang, and became an exten- 
sion-table for ten people. When they recovered from the 
panic, they came back. They found the commission-mer- 
chant in the corner trying to get breath enough to swear, 
while he rubbed his shins. Buffum had disappeared, but 
they knew he had not gone far. The invention appeared to 



THE READING-CLUB. 75 

have taken a fancy to him, and incorporated him into the 
firm, so to speak. He was down underneath, straddling 
one of the legs, with his head jammed into the mattress. 
Xobody dared to touch it. The landlady got a club and 
reached for its vital parts, but could not find them. She 
hammered her breath away ; and when she got througlh, and 
dropped the club in despair, the thing spread out its arms 
with a gasp and a rattle, turned over twice, and slapped it- 
self into a bed again, with Buffum peacefully among the 
sheets. He held his breath for a minute ; and then, watch- 
ing his opportunity, made a flying-leap to the floor, just in 
time to save himself from being a folding-screen. 

A man with a black eye and cut lip told the " Wasp " editor 
about it yesterday. He said he owned the patent, that Buf- 
fum had been explaining to him how it worked. 

From the San Francisco " Wasp/ 



f MAGDALENA." 



Sat we 'neath the dark veranda, 

Years and years ago ; 
And I softly pressed a hand a 

Deal more white than snow ; 
And I cast aside my reina, 

As I gazed upon her face, 
And I read her - Alagdalena," 

While she smoothed her Spanish lace - 
Read her Waller's •• Magdalena" — 
She had Magdalena's grace, 
Read her of the Spanish duel, 
Of the brother, courtly, cruel, 
Who between the British wooer 

And the Seville lady came : 
How her lover promptly slew her 

Brother, and then fled in shame — 
How he dreamed, in long years after, 
Of the river's rippling laughter — 

Of the love he used to know, 
In the myrtle-curtained villa, 
Near the city of Sevilla, 

Years and years ago. 



THE READING-CLUB. 

Ah, how warmly was I reading, 

As I gazed upon her face ! 
And my voice took tones of pleadingj 

For I sought to win her grace. 
Surely, thought I, in her veins 
Runs some drop of foreign strains — 
There is something half Castilian 
In that lip that shames vermilion ; 
In that mass of raven tresses, 
Tossing like a falcon's jesses ; 
In that eye with trailing lashes — 
And its witching upward flashes — 

Such, indeed, I know, 
Shone where Guadalquivir plashes 

Years and years ago. 

Looking in her face I read it — 

How the metre trips ! — 
And the god of lovers 

On my happy lips — 
All those words of mystic sweetness 
Spoke I with an airy neatness, 
As I never had before — 
As I cannot speak them more — 
Reja, plaza and mantilla. 

" No palabras " and Sevilla, 
Caballero and sombrero, 
And duenna and Duero, 
Spada, sen or, sabe Dios — 
Smooth as pipe of Meliboeus — 
Ah, how very well I read it, 

Looking in her lovely eyes ! 
When 'twas o'er, I looked for credit, 

As she softly moved to rise. 

Doting dream, ah, dream fallacious — 

Years and years ago ! 
For she only said, "My gracious — 

What a lot of French you know ! " 



Puck. 



THE READING-CLUB. 11 

RAKING THE MEADOW-LOT. 

A HAY-TIME IDYL. 

" We'll mow," quoth old farmer Jacobs, " the new corner 

medder to-day — 
Nell, you come an' help with the rakin' — its right ketchin' 

weather for hay ; 
Neighbor Smith's Jim, he's bin to the city, an' a new-fangled 

patent he's bought ; 
An' he's bound to come over this mornin', an' streak through 

that air medder-lot. 



He sez — an' I tell him the kaounty ain't able to beat him 

for cheek — 
The thing'll do more execution than me an' my boys in a 

week ; 
But he offered so kinder perlite-like (I've no faith in the 

gim crack — not I), 
I couldn't do other than 'low him to fetch the queer critter 

an' try." 



Pretty Nell, skimming cream in the dairy, peeped out through 
the vine-shaded pane, 

As Jim, with "Old Koan " and " Black Billy" went clatter- 
ing down through the lane ; 

And was it the "new-fangled mower " her shy blue eyes fol- 
lowed ? I ween 

From the blushes that deepened and flitted, it could not have 
been the machine. 



Prone under the lengthening shadows the feathery meadow- 
grass lay ; 

The daises uncrowned in their glory, sun-smitten, slow fad- 
ing away ; 

The cardinal flower in the ditches, rose proudly, right royally 
dressed, 

And restlessly hither and hither moaned the bobolinks 
spoiled of their nest. 



78 THE READING-CLUB. 

Fair Nellie outrivalled the daises ; and so, it -was plain, 
thought young Jim, 

Or else that such dainty hay-making required much assist- 
ance from him ; 

And if ever the lost joy of Eden came back to this earth long 
forgot, 

It came to these blissful young lovers, a raking the new 
meadow-lot. 

" What's this that you ax for — my Nellie? — Wal, if I ain't 

beat — can it be 
It wasn't my hay but my darter made you mighty obleegin' 

to me ? 
You don't desarve her, you rascal, but" — the shrewd gray 

eyes twinkled — "I guess — 
Considerin' the help you'll be hayin' — I s'pose — I shall hev 

to say — yes." 

Ruth Revere. 



AFTER "TAPS." 



Tramp! tramp! tramp! tramp! 

As I lay with my blanket on, 

By the dim firelight, in the moonlit night, 

When the skirmishing fight was done. 

The measured beat of the sentry's feet, 
With the jingling scabbard's ring ! 
Tramp ! tramp ! in my meadow-camp 
By the Shenandoah's spring ! 

The moonlight seems to shed cold beams 

On a row of pale grave-stones : 

Give the bugle breath, and that image of Death 

Will fly from the reveille's tones. 

By each tented roof, a charger's hoof 
Makes the frosty hillside ring : 
Give the bugle breath, and a spirit of Death 
To each horse's girth will spring. 



THE READING-CLUB. 79 

Tramp ! tramp ! tramp ! tramp ! 
The sentry before my tent, 
Guards in gloom his chief, for whom 
Its shelter to-night is lent. 

I am not there. On the hillside bare 

I think of the ghost within ; 

Of the brave who died at my sword-hand side, 

To-day, 'mid the horrible din 

Of shot and shell, and the infantry yell, 
As we charged with the sabre drawn. 
To my heart I said, " Who shall be the dea,d 
In my tent at another dawn ? " 

I thought of a blossoming almond-tree, 
The stateliest tree that I know ; 
Of a golden bowl ; of a parted soul ; 
And a lamp that is burning low. 

Oh, thoughts that kill ! I thought of the hill 
In the far-off Jura chain ; 
Of the two, the three, o'er the wide salt sea, 
Whose hearts would break with pain ; 

Of my pride and joy — my eldest boy ; 

Of my darling, the second — in years ; 

Of Willie, whose face with its pure, mild grace, 

Melts memory into tears ; 

Of their mother, my bride, by the Alpine lake's side, 
And the angels asleep in her arms ; 

Love, Beauty, and Truth, which she brought to my youth, 
In that sweet April day of her charms. 

" Halt ! Who covies (here ? " The cold midnight air, 
And the challenging word, chills me through : 
The ghost of a fear whispers, close to my ear, 
"Is peril, love, coming to you? " 



80 TEE READING-CLUB. 

The hoarse answer, " Relief," makes the shade of a grief 

Die away, with the step on the sod. 

A kiss melts in air, while a tear and a prayer 

Confide my beloved to God. 

Tramp ! tramp ! tramp ! tramp ! 

With a solemn pendulum-swing ! 

Though / slumber all night, the fire burns bright, 

And my sentinels' scabbards ring. 



" Boot and saddle! " is sounding. Our pulses are bounding. 

" To horse ! " and I touch with my heel 

Black Gray in the f?.uks, and ride down the ranks, 

With my heart, like my sabre, of steel. 

Horace Binney Sargent, 



INDIAN NAMES. 

Ye say they all have passed away — 

That noble race and brave ; 
That their light canoes have vanished 

From off the crested wave ; 
That, 'mid the forests where they roamed, 

There rings no hunter's shout ; 
But their name is on your waters — 

Ye may not wash it out. 

'Tis where Ontario's billow, 

Like ocean's surge is curled ; 
Where strong Niagara's thunders wake 

The echo of the world ; 
Where red Missouri bringeth 

Rich tribute from the west, 
And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps 

On green Virginia's breast. 

Ye say their cone-like cabins, 
That clustered o'er the vale, 
Have fled away like withered leaves 
Before the Autumn's gale ; 



THE READING-CLUB. 81 

But their memory liveth on your hills. 

Their baptism on your shore : 
Your everlasting rivers speak 

Their dialect of yore. 

Old Massachusetts wears it 

Upon her lordly crown, 
And broad Ohio bears it 

Amid his young renown ; 
Connecticut hath wreathed it 

Where her quiet foliage waves, 
And bold Kentucky breathes it hoarse 

Through all her ancient caves. 

Wachusett hides its lingering voice 

Within his rocky heart, 
And Alleghany graves its tone 

Throughout his lofty chart ; 
Monadnock on his forehead hoar 

Doth seal the sacred trust ; 
Your mountains build their monument, 

Though ye destroy their dust. 

Ye call these red-browed brethren 

The insects of an hour : 
Crushed like the noteless Avorm amid 

The regions of their power, 
Ye drive them from their fathers' lands, 

Ye break of faith the seal ; 
But can ye from the Court of Heaven 

Exclude their last appeal ? 

Ye see their unresisting tribes, 

With toilsome steps and slow, 
On through the trackless desert pass, 

A caravan of woe : 
Think ye the Eternal Ear is deaf? 

His sleepless vision dim ? 
Think ye the soul's blood may not cry 

From that far land to him ? 

L. H. Sigourney. 



82 THE READING-CLUB. 



HE NEVER TOLD A LIE. 

I saw him standing in the crowd — 

A comely youth and fair ! 
There was a brightness in his eye, 

A glory in his hair ! 
I saw his comrades gaze on him — 

His comrades standing by. 
I heard them whisper each to each, 

" He never told a lie ! " 

I looked in wonder on that boy, 

As he stood there so young : 
To think that never an untruth 

Was uttered by his tongue. 
I thought of all the boys I'd known, — = 

Myself among the fry, — 
And knew of none that one could say, 

" He never told a lie ! " 

I gazed upon that youth with awe 

That did enchain me long : 
I had not seen a boy before 

So perfect and so strong. 
And with something of regret 

I wished that he was I, 
So they might look at me and say, 

" He never told a lie L" 

I thought of questions very hard 

For boys to answer right : 
" How did you tear those pantaloons r * 

" My son ! what caused the fight ? " 
" Who left the gate ajar last night? ''"' 

" Who bit the pumpkin-pie ? " 
What boy could answer all of these, 

And never tell a lie ? 

I proudly took him by the hand — 
My words with praise were rife ; 

I blessed that boy who never told 
A falsehood in his life ; 



THE READING-CLUB. 

I told him I was proud of him — 

A fellow standing by, 
Informed me that that boy was dumb 

Who never told a lie ! 



A LESSON TO LOVERS. 

She, with a milk-pail on her arm, 

Turns aside with her young cheeks glowing, 
And sees down the lane, the slow, dull tread 

Of the drove of cows that are homeward going. 
"Bessie," he said : at the sound she turned, 

Her blue eyes full of childish wonder : 
"My mother is feeble and lame and old — 

I need a wife at my farmhouse yonder. 

" My heart is lonely, my home is drear : 

I need your presence ever near me. 
Will you be my guardian angel, dear, 

Queen of my household, to guide and cheer me?" 

"It has a pleasant sound," she said, — 

" A household queen, a guiding spirit, 
To warm your heart, and cheer your home, 

And keep the sunshine ever near it : 
But I am only a simple child, 

So my mother says in her daily chiding ; 
And what must a guardian angel do 

When she first begins her work of guiding ? " 

" Well, first, dear Bessie, a smiling face 

Is dearer far than the rarest beauty ; 
And my mother, fretful, lame, and old, 

Will require a daughter's loving duty. 
You will see to her flannels, drops, and tea, 

And talk with her of lungs and liver : 
Give her your cheerful service, dear — 

The Lord he loveth a cheerful giver. 



84 THE READING-CLUB. 

" You will see that my breakfast is piping hot, 

And rub the clothes to a snowy whiteness; 
Make golden butter and snowy rolls, 

And polish things to a shining brightness; 
Will darn my stockings, and mend my coats, 

And see that the buttons are sewed on tightly : 
You will keep things cheerful and neat and sweet, 

That home's altar-fires may still burn brightly. 

" You will read me at evening the daily news, 

The tedious winter nights beguiling, 
And never forget that the sweetest face 

Is a cheerful face that's always smiling. 
In short, you'll arrange in a general way 

For a sort of sublunary heaven ; 
For home, dear Bessie, say what we may, 

Is the highest sphere to a woman given." 

The lark sang out to the bending sky, 

The bobolink piped in the nodding rushes, 
And out of the tossing clover-blooms 

Came the sweet, clear song of the meadow-thrushes. 
And Bessie, listening, paused a while, 

Then said, with a sly glance at her neighbor, 
" But John — do you mean — that is to say, 

What shall I get for all this labor ? 

" To be nurse, companion, and servant girl, 

To make home's altar-fires burn brightly ; 
To wash and iron and scrub and cook, 

And always be cheerful, neat, and sprightly ; 
To give up liberty, home, and friends, 

Nay, even the name of a mother's giving, — 
To do all this for one's board and clothes, 

Why, the life of an angel isn't worth living ! " 

And Bessie gayly went her way 

Down through the fields of scented clover, 
But never again since that summer day 

Has she won a glance from her rustic lover. 
The lark sings out to the bending sky, 

The clouds sail on as white as ever ; 
The clovers toss in the summer wind, 

But Bessie has lost that chance forever. 



THE READING-CLUB. 85 



GRANT'S STRATEGY. 

Who had thought, until Grant said it, that the crisis 
comes in battle when both armies are nearly exhausted, and 
that usually the one wins which attacks first? When did 
he ever fail to attack first ? Who had thought, until he sug- 
gested it, that the trouble with the Potomac army, the pride 
of the nation, was, that it had not fought its battles through ? 
Who then living has forgotten the utter downfall of hope, 
the absolute despair throughout the North, as the moan 
from the Wilderness came rolling up on the southern breeze ? 
Is the task hopeless ? Is this last mighty effort only more 
disastrous than that of McClellan, of Pope, of Burnside, of 
Hooker ? No ! listen to the assurance, " I'll fight it out on 
this line if it takes all summer." Every loyal heart in 
the land is inspired. That telegram to the President was the 
death-knell of rebellion. 

But the test-hour of Grant had not yet come. Meade 
was glorious, Sherman magnificent; but Sigel is routed, 
Butler has not succeeded, Banks utterly failed. Shall 
Grant unloose his grip? Never! Was it, then, less than 
the inspiration of genius ? Sheridan, take the Sixth Corps, 
and clean out the valley so a " crow must take his rations 
when he flies over it." Meade, absorb the army of the 
James, and never let Lee escape. Sherman, march to the 
sea as a cyclone of devastation. Thomas, play with Hood 
until you draw him to destruction. Stoneman, take your 
bold riders across the mountains, into Virginia and the 
Carolinas, right across every line of supply to the enemy. 
Wilson, push your twelve thousand mounted men into the 
heart of Alabama. Canby, capture Mobile. 

Such was the new combination, audacious in strategy 
beyond precedent; but, if faulty in any respect, military 
critics have not discovered it. Its perfection, and the result 
of the execution, stamp it forever with the insignia of 
genius. Masterly tactics, brilliant manoeuvring, bold fight- 
ing, though essential to success after the combinations have 
produced the strategical situation, yet rarely cure material 
defect in the latter. If cured at all, it is generally by blun- 
ders of the enemy. Lee and Johnston, as defensive gener- 
als, were not blunderers. 1 pity the man who, in the face 
of the record, attacks General Grant as a master of grand 



S6 THE READING-CLUB. 

strategy. I need not speak of his tactics. I believe man- 
kind are agreed, that the history of war discloses no display 
of tactical skill and vigor superior to Grant's about Vicks- 
burg, and from the 3d to the 9th of April, 1865, being 
directed to prevent General Lee's attempted escape from 
Petersburg and junction with Johnston in North Carolina. 
The annals of other w 7 ars seem tame when read by the side 
of the story of that week's w^ork. It resulted in the despatch 
to Secretary Stanton, so simple and modest in language, yet 
the most momentous of all history : " General Lee surren- 
dered the army of Northern Virginia this afternoon on 
terms proposed by myself." The work w T as done, and how 
completely done, — done precisely as planned; not an element, 
not a vestige, of luck in it. Every army was at the precise 
place designed, with the exact work accomplished that was 
marked out for it Method, plan, design, exclude the idea 
of luck. Let us in humble reverence say, as the truth w~as, 
the God of nations blessed General Grant in his awful 
undertaking. 

Judge Veazey. 



A "LOVE" GAME. 

Shall w^e take a stroll together, 

You and I, 
And discuss the charming weather, 

This July, 
Or the picnics and the dances, 
And those sweet but short romances, 
Which, like other idle fancies, 

Pass and die ? 



Yes, 'tis true that things have happened 

Since we met, — 
Since I saw you first with cap and 

Gay rosette, 
Standing like some w T ell-drilled soldier, 
Only calmer and — well — bolder, 
With a racket on your shoulder, 

At the net ; 



THE READING-CLUB. 87 

And vour face lit up with laughter 

Through it all, 
Little feet went tripping after 

Every ball, 
While the look of bright reliance 
Which bespoke a pert defiance 
Of all manly wiles and science, 

I recall. 



'Twas a glance that struck dire terror 

To my heart, 
And proved source of many an error 

In my art ; 
Yet in truth I felt not humbled, 
Though my partner growled and grumbled, 
As I slid and slipped and stumbled 

Through my part. 



You still remember, though so trifling, 

What I said 
As we left the lawn, too stifling, 

For the shade ; 
And as, moved by glance magnetic 
Of your eyes, I waxed prophetic, 
While you smiled back sympathetic, 

Calm and staid? 



Is it wise, then, to remember 

Golden hours, — 
Eecall June in December 

Such as ours V 
All the hopes that have miscarried — 
What ! too long, you say, you've tarried, 
And 3'our husband — Then you're married ! 

Gracious powers ! 

T. Malcolm Watson 



88 THE READING-CLUB. 



AN OLD MAN'S PRAYER. 

In the loftiest room, of princely state, 

Of a modern palace grand and great, 

Whose marble front is a symbol true 

Of the inner splendors hid from view, 

On an autumn night, when wild without 

The bold winds held their revel rout, 

Rudely assailing the passing throng, 

Through churchyards creeping with mournful song, 

A group was gathered around a board 

Heaped with all that wealth could afford, 

Or taste could suggest : dishes costly and rare, 

Fruits of all climes and all seasons, were there. 

The pendent lights in brilliance danced 

On the gleaming plate their rays enhanced ; 

The massive mirrors thrice displayed 

The stately banquet there arrayed. 

Furniture carved by an artist hand, 

Carpets which only great wealth could command, 

Curtains of damask, of lace, and of gold, 

Spoke of the splendors wealth could unfold, 

And filled with a joy and a pleasure rare 

The youthful hearts that were gathered there. 

Slender each form, and fair each face, 

Of the twelve gay lads which that table grace, 

As with genial talk and pleasant jest 

They banter each other, and cheer their guest. 

For one guest is there, as youthful as they, 

With a heart as light, and a voice as gay, 

Who laughs at their jests with ready glee, 

And whose quick returns speak a spirit free, — 

An honored guest ; for, on the morrow, 

They must part with him in pain and sorrow. 

The glittering emblems his shoulders bear 

Bid him for strife and for peril prepare ; 

Bid him go forth at his Country's call, 

With her banner to triumph, or on it to fall. 

A moment's pause, as with ready hand 

The waiter hurries, at command, 

To clear the table, and, instead 

Of the rich, choice viands thickly spread, 



THE READING-CLUB. 89 

Ranges dark bottles and cruses, which show- 
Marks of long years in clamp vaults below. 
The richest juices age can display 
Are quickly spread in tempting array. 
Wines of Bordeaux and Seville are there, 
With liquors and cordials sparkling and rare ; 
And bottles are opened, and glasses are filled. 
When all in a moment the tumult is stilled, 
As he who presides with dignified grace 
High raises his goblet, and stands in his place : — 
" I give you, friends, no warrior's name 
Your hearts to thrill, your blood to flame ; 
No toast to beauty shall my lips repeat, 
Where we to-night in sacred friendship meet 
To part with one, who, in our boyhood's days, 
Earnest and true, won all our love and praise ; 
Who, on the morrow, plays the hero's part, 
And seeks the battle with a loyal heart. 
His health I give with an earnest prayer, 
That, while on his mission of peril and care, 
Success may be his, and, by deeds renowned, 
He may meet us again with laurels crowned." 
All glasses are raised, when a gentle hand 
Is heard at the door — all silent stand 
As it slowly opens, and into the light 
An old man steps, his features bright : 
The long white hairs o'er his shoulders stream, 
Like silver threads in the warm rays beam. 
Wrinkled his brow, and pale his face. 
Wasted his form, and tottering his pace, 
Shrunken his cheek; but the eye above 
Tells of gentleness, kindliness, love. 
And silent stand all as he slowly seeks 
A place near the table, and gently speaks : — 

" Young men, but a moment I check your mirth, 
And bring you back to the common earth. 
Unbidden I come with an old man's prayer : 
May it seek your hearts, and gain entrance there ! 
Look on my face, seamed, not with crime, 
But with marks of age before their time : 
These long white hairs should not have shown 
Till ten more years had by me flown. 



90 THE READING-CLUB. 

Age is upon me ; not age by years, 
But age by sorrow and care and tears ; 
Not age that cheers as it draweth near 
Yon heaven which seenieth more bright and clear, 
But age which causes the heart to lag- 
In its onward course, and the spirit to flag ; 
That prays for death as but a release 
From earthly care, and finds no peace 
In that sweet belief that at last I hail, — 
' There is rest for the weary beyond the vale.' 
For to me has come a spirit of light, 
Bringing the morning, and chasing the night ; 
Causing my heart with joy to swell 
To my Maker, 'who doeth all things well.' 
You shall hear my story : 'twill not be long, 
And may guard you all from sin and from wrong. 
I had wealth and plenty in goodly lands, 
In houses and cattle ; and from my hands 
Many were fed; and many were they 
Who partook of my charity day by day. 
My house was open to stranger and friend; 
And my gold did I lavishly, freely spend. 
But one bitter curse did my wealth uprear 
To poison my life, — the tempter here, 
The sparkling demon, which now I see 
From all your glasses glaring on me, — 
A monster who steals on its prey so slow, 
That it has your life before you know 
Or dream of its power : this was the curse 
That sat at my fireside, robbed my purse, 
Poisoned my life, and left me to be 
A drifting log on the world's wide sea, 
Ruined and bankrupt, lost and bereft ; 
No kindred, no fortune, no treasure, left. 
Treasure ! — yes ; for I had three sons, 
The hope of my life, — three noble ones. 
You shall hear their fate, and then I'll away, 
Nor longer your hour of pleasure delay. 

One sought as a merchant hopeful to clear 
Our tarnished name, to again uprear 
Our shattered house ; but, sad to say, 
The curse of the wine-cup was in his way. 



T3E READING-CLUB. 91 

He seized on it madly, drank deep and fast, 
And sank to the drunkard's grave at last. 
I stood by his side as with frenzy wild 
He cursed himself and his wife and child ; 
He cursed me too, as the one who had led 
His feet in the path that drunkards tread; 
And then — it was worse than all beside — 
He cursed his Maker ; and then — he died ! 

Another, with spirit that loved to brave, 

Sought a bold, free life on the ocean-wave. 

He left my side full of life and health, 

In a good stanch ship, in search of wealth. 

A twelvemonth passed, and day by day 

I scanned for his sail the distant bay. 

At last I saw it, and eagerly flew 

To welcome my boy so manly and true. 

But, alas ! he was gone : no son to greet 

My waiting heart came with eager feet. 

But they told me there, — one stormy night, 

When the heavens were filled with angry light, 

The waves rolled high, and the winds beat wild, 

That out on a frail yard went my child ; 

He had drunk deep, and 'twas fearful to sweep 

On that slender spar o'er the seething deep ; 

That one heavy sea tossed the ship like a toy, 

And hurled from his hold my darling boy. 

Then I sank me down in agony wild, 

And glared on the waves that rolled over my child : 

I gazed until in the waters blue 

I saw reflected the brilliant hue 

Of one lone star, which, high above, 

Seemed to speak to my heart of faith and love ; 

And I thought, as I turned my eyes to its light,, 

It beckoned me on to the heavens so bright, 

Where I know, whenever this life shall cease, 

I shall meet my boy in eternal peace. 

I had but one left ; and him I taught 

To shun each sinful word and thought ; 

To beware of the wine-cup's demon lure, 

That would steel his heart, and his soul obscure. 



92 THE READING-CLUB. 

He took the way of life that leads 

To the sacred desk where the preacher pleads, 

And placed his foot on the pulpit stair, 

The gospel — banner of life — to bear. 

When the cannon's boom o'er Sumter broke, 

And the air was filled with traitorous smoke ; 

When brave men sprang with willing hearts 

To their Country's flag to repel the darts 

Which treason had hurled with malice wild 

At the life of the mother, so good and mild, — 

My boy stepped down from the preacher's stand, 

And started forth, with life in hand, 

To sell it dear, but to battle strong 

With the loyal North against fearful wrong. 

I know that he carries a magic spell 

'Gainst the curse of our race to guard him well; 

And I know, should he fall, his death will be 

In the foremost ranks of loyalty. 

And now, young men, an old man's prayer : — 

Leave the bright wine in your glasses there ; 

Shun its allurements ; for in its deep red 

Is the blood of its victims dying and dead. 

Fill up your glasses, and pledge your friend 

In the crystal stream that Heaven doth send." 

With a lowly bow, and the same meek air, 
He has passed the door, and adown the stair ; 
While those he has left to their leader turn 
With downcast eyes, and cheeks that burn. 
Silent he stands as his glass he takes, 
When the guest of the evening the silence breaks. 
" Friends of my boyhood, the old man's prayer 
Shall meet a response in the heart I wear. 
I come to-night from a mother's side : 
She watches my life with a parent's pride ; 
And I know 'tis the clearest wish of her heart, 
In camp and in battle to keep me apart 
From sin and temptation ; unceasing will pray 
Heaven's blessing to guard on my perilous way. 
And this pledge will I leave her, — never again 
The wine-cup's deadly poison to drain. 
• So, friends, let's drink to our meeting again : 
My drink is the water, free from all stain." 



THE READING-CLUB. 93 

He stood with his upraised glass, and the light 
Full on his fair young brow beamed bright, — 
That brow which an anxious mother would kiss 
With a pure, deep feeling of heartfelt bliss ; 
And along the line of his comrades young, 
To honor his toast, each hand upsprung : 
In not one glass did the red wine gleam ; 
But all were filled from the crystal stream. 

On the morrow, adown the street, 

With trumpet's blast and war-drum's beat, 

Firm and erect, with martial tread, 

The flag of their Country overhead, 

With brave, stout hearts, and patriot-song, 

The Nation's heroes go marching along. 

And our soldier is there, marching forth 

To join the bands of the loyal North ; 

To strike a blow for his Country dear, 

And her trailing flag to again uprear. 

Light is his heart ; his faith is strong ; 

Bright gleams his sword as he moves along : 

But the armor he wears that shall serve him best 

Is the pledge to his mother guarding his breast. 

George M. Baker. 



THE LEAK IN THE DIKE. 

A STORY OF HOLLAND. 

The good dame looked from her cottage 

At the close of the pleasant day, 
And cheerily called to her little son 

Outside the door at play, — 
" Come, Peter, come ! I want you to go, 

While there is light to see, 
To the hut of the blind old man who lives 

Across the dike, for me ; 
And take these cakes I made for him — 

They are hot and smoking yet : 
You have time enough to go and come 

Before the sun is set." 



94 THE READING-CLUB. 

Then the good-wife turned to her labor, 

Humming a simple song, 
And thought of her husband, working hard 

At the sluices all ftay long ; 
And set the turf a-blazing, 

And brought the coarse black bread, 
That he might find a fire at night, 

And find the table spread. 

And Peter left the brother, 

With whom all day he had played, 
And the sister who had w T atched their sports 

In the willow's tender shade, 
And told them they'd see him back before 

They saw a star in sight, 
Though he wouldn't be afraid to go 

In the very darkest night ! 

For he was a brave, bright fellow, 

With eye and conscience clear ; 
He could do whatever a boy might do, 

And he had not learned to fear. 
Why, he wouldn't have robbed a bird's nest, 

Nor brought a stork to harm, 
Though never a law in Holland 

Had stood to stay his arm ! 

And now, with his face all glowing, 

And eyes as bright as the day 
With the thoughts of his pleasant errand, 

He trudged along the way ; 
And soon his joyous prattle 

Made glad a lonesome place — 
Alas! if only the blind old man 

Could have seen that happy face ! 
Yet he somehow caught the brightness 

Which his voice and presence lent, 
And he felt the sunshine come and go 

As Peter came and went. 

And now, as the day was sinking, 

And the winds began to rise, 
The mother looked from her door again ? 

Shading her anxious eyes, 



THE READING-CLUB. 95 

And saw the shadows deepen, 

And birds to their homes come back, 
But never a sign of Peter 

Along the level track. 
But she said, " He will come at morning, 

So I need not fret or grieve ; 
Though it isn't like my boy at all 

To stay without my leave." 

But where was the child delaying ? 

On the homeward way was he, 
And across the dike, while the sun was up 

An hour above the sea. 
He was stopping, now to gather flowers, 

Now listening to the sound, 
As the angry waters dashed themselves 

Against their narrow bound. 
" Ah ! well for us," said Peter ; 

" That the gates are good and strong, 
And my lather tends them carefully, 

Or they would not hold you long ! 
You're a wicked sea," said Peter : 

" I know why } r ou fret and chafe ; 
You would like to spoil our lands and homes; 

But our sluices keep you safe ! " 

But hark ! Through the noise of waters 

Comes a low, clear, trickling sound ; 
And the child's face pales with terror, 

And his blossoms drop to the ground. 
He is up the bank in a moment, 

And, stealing through the sand, 
He sees a stream not yet so large 

As his slender, childish hand. 
'Tis a leak in the dike ! He is but a boy, 

Unused to fearful scenes ; 
But, young as he is, he has learned to know 

The dreadful thing that means. 
A leak in the dike ! The stoutest heart 

Grows faint that cry to hear, 
And the bravest man in all the land 

Turns white with mortal fear. 



THE READING-CLUB. 

!For he knows the smallest leak may grow 

To a flood in a single night, 
And he knows the strength of the cruel sea 

When loosed in its angry might. 

And the boy ! He has seen the danger, 

And, shouting a wild alarm, 
He forces back the weight of the sea 

With the strength of his single arm. 
He listens for the joyful sound 

Of a footstep passing nigh, 
And lays his ear to the ground, to catch 

The answer to his cry. 
And he hears the rough winds blowing, 

And the waters rise and fall, 
But never an answer comes to him, 

Save the echo of his call. 
He sees no hope, no succor ; 

His feeble voice is lost ; 
Yet what shall he do but watch and wait. 

Though he perish at his post ! 

So, faintly calling and crying 

Till the sun is under the sea, 
Crying and moaning till the star* 

Come out for company, 
He thinks of his brother and sister, 

Asleep in their safe warm bed ; 
He thinks of his father and mother, 

Of himself as dying — and dead ; 
And of how, when the night is over, 

They must come and find him at last : 
But he never thinks he can leave the place 

Where duty holds him fast. 

The good dame in the cottage 

Is up and astir with the light, 
Fo. ihe thought of her little Peter 

Has been with her all night. 
And now she watches the pathway, 

As yestereve she had done ; 
But what does she see so strange and black 

Against the rising sun ? 



THE READING-CLUB. 97 

Her neighbors are bearing between them 

Something straight to her door : 
Her child is coming home, but not 

As he ever came before ! 

" He is dead ! " she cries ; " my darling ! " 

And the startled father hears, 
And comes and looks the way she looks, 

And fears the thing she fears : 
Till a glad shout from the bearers 

Thrills the stricken man and wife — 
" Give thanks, for your son has saved our land, 

And God has saved his life ! " 
So, there in the morning sunshine 

They knelt about the boy ; 
And every head was bared and bent 

In tearful, reverent joy. 

'Tis many a year since then ; but still, 

When the sea roars like a flood, 
Their boys are taught what a boy can do 
Who is brave and true and good. 
I For every man in that country 
Takes his son by the hand, 
And tells him of little Peter, 
Whose courage saved the land. 
\ They have many a valiant hero 
\ Remembered through the years, 
\But never one whose name so oft 
\ Is named with loving tears. 
Vnd his deed shall be sung by the cradle, 
\ And told the child on the knee, 
J> long as the dikes of Holland 
Divide the land from the sea ! 

Phoebe Cary. 



TIfe "COURSE OF LOVE" TOO 
"SMOOTH." 

She cam^ripping from the church-door, her face flushed 
by emotion^, wakened by the just uttered discourse, and 
eyes bright Vita loving expectation. He shivered on the 



98 TEE READING-CLUB. 

curbstone, where for an hour he had waited impatiently, 
with a burning heart fairly palpitating in his throat, and 
frozen fingers in his pockets. They linked arms, and started 
for the residence of her parents. After a few moments' 
hesitating,, silence, he said, "Jane, we have known each 
other long. You must know just how I feel. You must 
have seen that clear down at the bottom — O Moses ! " 

He had slipped down on the ice with so much force that 
his spine was driven up into his hat, and his hat was tipped 
over his nose ; but she was a tender-hearted girl ; she did no; 
laugh, but she carefully helped him to his feet, and said, — 

" You were saying, John, when you slipped, that the foun- 
dation — Oh, goodness ! " 

She slipped herself that time, and saw little stars cone 
down to dance before her eyes ; but he pulled her up in haste, 
and went on, — 

"Yes; just as I said, clean down at the bottom of ny 
heart is a fervent love, on which I build my hopes. Tiat 
love has helped me stand and face — Thunder ! " 

He was down again, but scrambled up before she cculd 
stoop to help him ; and she said, breathlessly, — 

"Yes, yes, John. You remember you just said a love 
which helped you stand and face thunder. And tha you 
founded your hopes on — This pesky ice ! " 

There she sat. John grasped the loose part of he? sack, 
between the shoulders, with one hand, and raised her^o her 
feet, as one would lift a kitten from a pail of waterby the 
back of the neck. Then he said, with increased arnest- 
ness, — 

" Of course, darling ; and I have longed for a oppor- 
tunity to tell my love, and to hear those sweet lips wiisper — 
Whoop ! " 

Somehow John's feet had slipped from under hii, and he 
had come down like a capital V with his heac and feet 
pointing skyward. She twined her taper fingers i his curl- 
ing locks, and raised him to the stature of a man set his hat 
firmly over his eyes with both hands, and cried, i breathless 
haste, — 

" I understand! and let me assure you, Johnthat if it is 
in my power to lighten your cares, and niakf lighter your 
journey through life to — Jerusalem ! " 

John stood alone, and said with breathless .'ehemence, — 

" O my precious ! and thus shall it be my l^lcmg pleasure 



THE READING-CLUB. 99 

to lift you from the rude assaults of earth, and surround you 
with the loving atmosphere of — Texas ! " 

And there they both sat together. They had nearly 
reached the gate, and, hand in hand, and with hearts over- 
flowing with the bliss of young love's first confession, they 
crept along on their knees up to the front steps, and were 
soon forgetful of their bumps on the softest cushion of the 
parlor sofa. 



DYIN' VORDS OF ISAAC. 

Vhen Shicago vas a leedle villages, dher lifed dherein py 
dot Clark Sdhreet out, a shentlemans who got some names 
\ like Isaacs ; he geeb a cloting store, mit goots dot vit you 
voost der same like dhey vas made. Isaacs vas a goot fel- 
lers, und makes goot pishness on his hause. Veil, thrade 
£ot besser as der time he vas come, und dose leetle shtore 
tas not so pig enuff like anudder shtore, und pooty gwick he 
locks out und leaves der pblace. 

Xow Yacob Schloffenheimer vas a shmard feller ; und he 
dinks of he dook der olt shtore, he got good pishness, und 
dcee olt coostomers von Isaac out. Von tay dhere comes a 
shentlemans on his store, und Yacob quick say of der mans, 
" Hhw you vas, mein f reund ? you like to look of mine goots, 
ainAit?" — " X ein," der mans say. "Veil, mein f reund, it 
makfes me notting troubles to show dot goots." — " Xein ; I 
don'd vood buy sometings to-tay " — "Yoostcome mit me 
vonce. mein f reund, und I show you sometings, und so hellup 
me gracious, I don'd ask you to buy dot goots." — " Veil, I 
told you vat it vas, I don'd vood look at some tings yoost 
now ; Tkeebs a livery shtable ; und I likes to see mein old ' 
freund Uister Isaacs, und I came von Kaintucky out to see 
him voixe." — "Mister Isaacs ? Veil, dot ish pad; I vas 
sorry von dot. I dells you, mein freund, Mister Isaacs he 
vas died. He vas mein brudder, und he vas not mit us eny 
more. Yo>st vhen he vas on his deat-ped, und vas dyin', he 
says of me, ■> Yacob, (dot ish mine names), und I goes me 
ofer mit hisbetside, und he poods his hands of mine, und he 
says of me, 'Yacob' ofer a man he shall come von Kaintucky 
out, mit ret hVir, und mit plue eyes, Yacob, sell him dings 
cheab ; ' und b> lay ofer und died his last." 

Anonymous. 



100 THE READING-CLUB. 



NO! 

No sun — no moon — 
No morn — no noon — 
No dawn — no dusk — no proper time of day — 
No sky — no earthly view — 
No distance looking blue — 
No road — no street — no " t'other side the way" — 
No end to any Row — 
No indications where the crescents go — 
No top to any steeple — 
No recognition of familiar people — 
No courtesies for showing 'em — 
No knowing 'em — 
No travelling at all — no locomotion — 
No inkling of the way — no notion — 
No go, by land or ocean ! 

No mail — no post — 
No news from any foreign coast — 
No park — no ring — no afternoon gentility — p 
No company — no nobility — 
No warmth — no cheerfulness, no healthful ease — 

No comfortable feel in any member — 
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, 
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds, 
November ! 



Hood. 



THE MENAGERIE. 

Did you ever ? No, I never ! 

Mercy on us, what a smell ! 
Don't be frightened, Johnny dear! 

Gracious! how the jackalls yell. 
Mother, tell me what's the man 

Doing with that pole of his ? 
Bless your little precious heart, 

He's stirring up the beastesses ! 

Children, don't you go so near! 

Heving's ! there's the Af ric cowes 1 
What's the matter with the child.' 

Why, the monkey's, tore his trmsers! 



THE READING-CLUB. 101 

Here's the monstrous elephant — 

I'm all a-tremble at the sight ; 
See his monstrous toothpick, boys ! 

Wonder if he's fastened tight ? 



There's the lion ! see his tail ! 

How he drags it on the floor! 
Sakes alive ! I'm awful scared 

To hear the horrid creatures roar ! 
Here's the monkeys in their cage, 

Wide awake you are to see 'em ; 
Funny, ain't it? How would you 

Like to have a tail and be 'em ? 



Johnny, darling, that's the bear 

That tore the naughty boys to pieces ! 
Horned cattle ! only hear 

How the dreadful camel wheezes ! 
That's the tall giraffe, my boy, 

Who stoops to hear the morning lark; 
'Twas him who waded Xoah's flood, 

And scorned the refuge of the ark. 



Here's the crane — ■ the awkward bird ! 
Strong his neck is as a whaler's; 

And his bill is full as long- 
As ever met one from the tailor's. 

Look ! just see the zebra there, 
Standing safe behind the bars ; 

Goodness me ! how like a flag, 
All except the corner stars ! 

There's the bell ! the birds and beasts 

Now are going to be fed ; 
So, my little darlings, come, 

It's time for you to be abed. 
" Mother, 'tisn't nine o'clock ! 

You said we needn't go before ; 
Let us stay a little while — 

Want to see the monkeys more ! " 



102 THE READING-CLUB. 

Cries the showman, " Turn 'em out ! 

Dim the lights ! there, that will do ; 
Come again to-morrow, boys ; 

Bring your little sister, too." 
Exit mother, half distraught, 

Exit "father, muttering "Bore! " 
Exit children blubbering still, 

" Want to see the monkeys more ! " 

J. Honeywell. 



BIDDY'S PHILOSOPHY. 

What would I do if you was dead ? 

And when do you think of dying ? 
I'd stand by your bed, and hold your head, 

And cry, or pretind to be crying ! 
There's many a worser man nor you — 

If one knew where to rind him — 
And mebbe many a better, too, 

With money to leave behind him ! 
But you, if I was dying to-day, 

(I saw you now when you kissed her !) 
I tell you, Pat, what you'd be at — 

You'd marry your widdy's sister! 

You'd make an illigant corpse, indade, 

Sleeping so sound and stiddy ; 
If you could see yourself as you laid, 

You'd want to come back to Biddy ! 
You would be dressed in your Sunday best, 

As tidy as I could make you, 
With a sprig of something on your breast, 

And the boys would come to wake you. 
But you, if I was dead in your stead, 

(Do you think I never missed her?) 
I tell you, Pat, what you'd be at — 

You'd marry your widdy's sister! 

The undertaker would drive the hearse 
That has the big black feather ; 

If there was no money left in your purse. 
Your friends would club together. 






THE READING-CLUB. 103 

They'd look at your cold remains before 

They followed you down to the ferry, 
And the coaches standing at the door 

Would go to the cemetery. 
But you, if I was once in the box, 

(I wonder her lips don't blister !) 
I tell you, Pat, what you'd be at — 

You'd marry your widdy's sister ! 

When you was under the sod I'd sigh, 

And — if I could do without you — 
Mebbe I've a strapping lad in my eye 

Would come here and talk about you. 
A little courtin' would be divertin', 

A kind voice whispering " Biddy ! " 
And a kiss on the sly — for what's the hurt in 

A man consoling a widdy ? 
But you, before I was dead at all, 

(Now don't deny that you kissed her !) 
I tell you, Pat, what you'd be at — 

You'd marry your widdy's sister ! 

R. H. Stoddard. 



ON THE SHORES OF TENNESSEE. 

" Move my arm-chair, faithful Pompey, 

In the sunshine bright and strong, 
For this world is fading, Pompey — 

Massa won't be with you long ; 
And I fain would hear the south wind 

Bring once more the sound to me, 
Of the wavelets softly breaking 

On the shores of Tennessee. 

" Mournful though the ripples murmur, 

As they still the story tell, 
How no vessels float the banner 

That I've loved so long and well, 
I shall listen to their music, 

Dreaming that again I see 
Stars and strips on sloop and shallop 

Sailing up the Tennessee ; 



104 THE READING-CLUB. 

" And, Porapey, w^iile old Massa's waiting 

For Death's last despatch to come, 
If that exiled starry banner 

Should come proudly sailing home, 
You shall greet it, slave no longer — 

Voice and hand shall both be free 
That shout and point to Union colors 

On the waves of Tennessee." 



" Massa's berry kind to Pompey ; 

But old darkey's happy here, 
Where he's tended corn and cotton 

For dese many a long gone year. 
Over yonder Missis' sleeping — 

No one tends her grave like me : 
Mebbe she would miss the flowers 

She used to love in Tennessee." 



" 'Pears like, she was watching Massa - 

If Pompey should beside him stay, 
Mebbe she'd remember better 

How for him she used to pray ; 
Telling him that way up yonder 

White as snow his soul would be, 
If he served the Lord of heaven 

While he lived in Tennessee." 

Silently the tears were rolling 

Down the poor old dusky face, 
As he stepped behind his master, 

In his long accustomed place. 
Then a silence fell around them, 

As they gazed on rock and tree 
Pictured in the placid waters 

Of the rolling Tennessee, — 

Master, dreaming of the battle 
Where he fought by Marion's side, 

When he bid the haughty Tarleton 
Stoop his lordly crest of pride, — 



THE READING-CLUB. 105 

Man, remembering how yon sleeper 

Once he held upon his knee, 
Ere she loved the gallant soldier, 

Ralph Vervair of Tennessee. 

Still the south wind fondly lingers 

'Mid the veteran's silver hair ; 
Still the bondman close beside him 

Stands behind the old arm-chair, 
With his dark-hued hand uplifted, 

Shading e} T es, he bends to see 
Where the woodland, boldly jutting, 

Turns aside the Tennessee. 

Thus he watches cloud-born shadows 

Glide from tree to mountain crest, 
Softly creeping, aye and ever 

To the river's yielding breast. 
Ha ! above the foliage yonder 

Something flutter^ wild and free ! 
"Massa! Massa! Hallelujah! 

The flag's come back to Tennessee ! " 

" Pompey, hold me on your shoulder ; 

Help me stand on foot once more, 
That I may salute the colors 

As they pass my cabin door. 
Here's the paper signed that frees you ; 

Give a freeman's shout with me — 
' God and Union ' be our watchword 

Evermore in Tennessee ! " 

Then the trembling voice grew fainter, 

And the limbs refused to stand ; 
One prayer to Jesus — and the soldier 

Glided to the better land. 
When the flag went down the river, 

Man and master both were free ; 
While the ring-dove's note was mingled 

W T ith the rippling Tennessee. 

E. L. Beers. 



106 TEE READING-CLUB. 



PADDY'S DREAM. 



I have often laughed at the way an Irish help we had at 
Barnstable once fished me for a glass of whiskey. One 
morning he says to me, " Oh, yer honor," says he, "I had a 
great drame last night intirely ! I dramed I was in Rome, 
tho' how I got there is more than I can tell : but there I was, 
sure enougli ; and as in duty bound, what does I do but go 
and see the Pope. Well, it was a long journey, and it was 
late when J got there — too late for the likes of me ; and when 
I got to the palace I saw priests and bishops and cardinals, 
and all the great dignitaries of the Church, a-coming out ; 
and sais one of them to me, ' How are ye, Pat Moloney ? ' 
sais he ; ' and that spalpeen yer father, bad luck to him ! how 
is he ? ' It startled me to hear me own name so suddent, 
that it came mighty nigh waking me up, it did. Sais I, 
' Your riverence, how in the world did ye know that Pat 
Moloney was me name, let alone that of me father ? ' — ' Why, 
ye blackguard ! ' sais he, ' I knew ye since ye was knee-high 
to a goose, and I knew yer mother afore ye was born.' — 
' It's good right yer honor has then to know me,' sais I. — 
' Bad manners to ye ! ' sais he ; ' what is it ye are afther doing 
here at this time o'night ? ' — 'To see his Holiness, the Pope,' 
sais I. ' That's right,' sais he ; ' pass on, but leaA^e yer im- 
pudence with yer hat and shoes at the door.' Well, I was 
shown into a mighty fine room where his Holiness was, and 
down I went on me knees. ' Rise up, Pat Moloney,' sais his 
Holiness ; ' ye're a broth of a boy to come all the way from 
Ireland to do yer duty to me ; and it's dutiful children ye 
are, every mother's son of ye. What will ye have to drink, 
Pat? ' (The greater a man is, the more of a rael gintleman 
he is, yer honor, and the more condescending.) ' What will 
ye have to drink, Pat? ' sais he. ' A glass of whiskey, yer 
Holiness,' sais I, 'if it's all the same to ye.' — ' Shall it be 
hot, or cold ? ' sais he. ' Hot,' sais I, ' if it's all the same, 
and gives ye no trouble.' — ' Hot it shall be,' sais he ; 'but 
as I have dismissed all me servants for the night, I'll just 
step down below for the tay-kettle ; ' and wid that he left 
the room, and was gone for a long time ; and jist as he came 
to the door again he knocked so loud the noise woke me up, 
and, be jabers ! I missed me whiskey entirely ! Bedad, if I 
had only had the sense to say ' Nate, yer Holiness,' I'd a 



THE READING-CLUB. 107 

had me whiskey sure enough, and never known it warn't all 
true, instead of a drame." I knew what he wanted, so I 
poured him out a glass. " Won't it do as well now, Pat?" 
said I. " Indeed it will, yer honor," says he, " and me 
drame will come true, after all. I thought it would ; for it 
was mighty nateral at the time, all but the whiskey." 

Anonymous. 



LESSONS IN COOKERY. 

Miss Cicely Jones is just home from boarding-school, and 
engaged to be married; and, as she knows nothing about 
cooking or housework, is going to take a few lessons in culi- 
nary art to fit her for the new station in life which she is 
expected to adorn with housewifely grace. She certainly 
makes a charming picture as she stands in the kitchen-door, 
draped in a chintz apron prettily trimmed with bows of rib- 
bon, her bangs hidden under a Dolly- Varden cap, old kid 
gloves, while she sways to and fro on her dainty French-kid 
heels, like some graceful wind-blown flower. 

"Mamma," she lisped prettily, "please introduce me to 
your assistant." 

Whereupon, mamma says, " Bridget, this is your young 
lady, Miss Cicely, who wants to learn the name and use of 
every thing in the kitchen, and how to make cocoanut rusks 
and angels' food, before she goes to housekeeping for her- 
self.'; 

Bridget gives a snort of disfavor ; but, as she looks at the 
young lady, relents, and says, " I'll throy." 

" And now, Bridget dear," says Miss Cicely, when they 
were alone, " tell me every thing. You see, I don't know any 
thing, except what they did at school ; and isn't this old 
kitchen lovely ? What makes this ceiling such a beautiful 
bronze color, Bridget ? " 

" Shmoke," answers Bridget shortly ; " and me ould eyes 
are put out with that same." 

" Shmoke — I must remember that ; and, Bridget, what are 
those shiny things on the wall ? " 

" Kivers ? — tin kivers for pots and kittles." 

" Kivers ? — oh, yes ; I must look for the derivation of that 
word. Bridget, what are those round things in the basket?" 

" Praties ! (For the Lord's sake where hez ye lived niver 



108 THE READING-CLUB. 

to hear of praties ?) Why, them's the principal mate of Ire- 
land, where I kim from." 

" Oh ! but we have corrupted the name into potatoes ; such 
a shame not to keep the idiom of a language ! Bridget — 
do you mind if I call you Biddie i It is more euphonious, 
and modernizes the old classic appellation. What is this 
liquid in the pan here ? " 

"Och, murder! Where wuz ye raised? That's millick, 
fresh from the cow." 

" Millick ? That is the vernacular, I suppose, of milk; and 
that thick, yellow coating? " 

" Is crame. (Lord, such ignorance ! ) " 

" Crame ! Now, Biddie, dear, I must get to work. I'm 
going to make a cake all out of my own head for Henry — 
he's my lover, Biddie — to eat when he comes to-night." 

Bridget [aside] : " It's dead he is, sure, if he ates it ! " 

"I've got it all down here, Biddie, on my tablet : A pound 
of butter, twenty eggs, two pounds of sugar, salt to your 
taste. No, that's a mistake. Oh, here it is ! Now, Biddie, 
the eggs first. It says to beat them well ; but won't that 
break the shells ? " 

" Well, I'd break thim this time if I were you, Miss 
Cicely ; they might not set well on Mister Henry's stummack 
if ye didn't," said Bridget pleasantly. 

" Oh ! I suppose the shells are used separately. There ! I've 
broken all the eggs into the flour. I don't think I'll use the 
shells, Biddie ; give them to some poor people. Now, what 
next? Oh, I'm so tired! Isn't housework dreadful hard? 
But I'm glad I've learned to make cake. Now, what shall I 
do next, Biddie ? " 

" Excuse me, Miss Cicely, but you might give it to the 
pigs. It's meself can't see any other use for it," said 
Bridget, very crustily. 

" Pigs ! O Biddie ! you don't mean to say that you have 
some dear, cunning little white pigs ! Oh, do bring the 
little darlings in and let me feed them ! I'm just dying to 
have one for a pet ! I saw some canton-flannel ones once at 
a fair, and they were too awfully sweet for any thing." 

Just then the bell rang, and Bridget returned to announce 
Mr. Henry ; and Cicely told Bridget she would take another 
lesson the next day : and then she went up- stairs in her chintz 
apron and mob-cap, with a little dab of flour on her tip-lifted 
nose, and told Henry she was learning to cook ; and he told 



THE READING-CLUB. 109 

ner she must not be overheated, or worried out, for he didn't 
care whether she could cook or not : he should never want to 
eat when he could talk to her, and it was only sordid souls 
that cared for cooking. 

And, meanwjiile, poor Bridget was just slamming things in 
the kitchen, and talking to herself in her own sweet idiom 
about " idgits turning things upside down for her incon- 
vaniencing. " Detroit Free Press. 



PAT'S REASON. 

One day, in a crowded Market-street car, 

A lady was standing. She had ridden quite far, 

And seemed much disposed to indulge in a frown, 

As nobody offered to let her sit down. 

And many there sat, who, to judge by their dress, 

Might a gentleman's natural instincts possess ; 

But who, judged by their acts, make as firmly believe 

That appearances often will sadly deceive. 

There were some most intently devouring the news, 

And some, through the windows, enjoying the views ; 

And others indulged in a make-believe nap, 

While the lady stood holding on by the strap. 

At last a young Irishman, fresh from the "sod," 

Arose with a stuile and most comical nod, 

Which said quite as plain as in words could be stated, 

That the lady should sit in the place he'd vacated. 

"Excuse me," said Pat, "that I caused you to wait 

So long before offerin' to give you a sate ; 

But in truth I was only just waitin' to see 

If there wasn't more gintlemin here beside me." 



110 THE READING-CLUB. 



AN ORIGINAL IDEA. 

A DUOLOGUE FOR A LADY AND GENTLEMAN IN TWO PARTS. 

CHARACTERS. 
Festus, a rejected suitor. Stella, the cruel rejecter. 

Scene. — A handsomely furnished apartment in the house of 
Stella. Table, c, with rich cover, books, flowers, etc. 
Tete-a-tete, r. c, arm-chairs, r. and l. of table, c. Entrances, 
r., l., and c. Enter Festus, l., in evening costume. 

Festus. " Thus far into the bowels of the land have we 
inarched on without impediment." Here am I once more 
in the place from which, but one short week ago, I made an 
unceremonious exit as the rejected suitor of a young, lovely, 
and talented lady. Rejected suitor ! — those words slip very 
smoothly from the lips, as pleasantly as though they were 
associated with some high-sounding title of nobility. There 
is nothing in the sound of them to conjure up the miserable, 
mean, contemptible, kicked-out feeling which a man experi- 
ences who has received at the hands of lovely woman that 
specimen of feminine handicraft — the mitten. All my own 
fault, too ! I'm a bashful man. Modesty, the virtue which 
is said to have been " the ruination of Ireland," is the rock 
against which my soaring ambition has dashed itself. I have 
sat in this room, evening after evening, upon the edge of a 
chair, twirling my thumbs, and saying — nothing. I couldn't 
help it. I have brought scores of compliments to the door, 
and left them in the hall with my hat. I wanted to speak ; 
I'kept up " a deuce of a thinking ; " but somehow, when I 
had an agreeable speech ready to pop out of my mouth, it 
seemed to be frightened at the sight of the fair object -against 
whom it was to be launched, and tumbled back again. It's 
no use : when a man is in love, the more he loves, the more 
silent he becomes ; at least it was so in my case. And when 
I did manage, after much stammering and blushing, to " pop 
the question," the first word from the lady set me shivering ; 
and the conclusion of her remarks set me running from the 
house utterly demoralized, — " I shall always be happy to see 
you as a friend, your conversation is so agreeable." Here 
was a damper, after six weeks of unremitting though silent 
attention. But she likes me, I'm sure of that. It is my si- 
lence which has frightened her. I only need a little more 



THE READING-CLUB. Ill 

variety in my style of conversation to make myself agree- 
able to her. I have an original idea ; and I advise all bash- 
ful men to take warning from my past experience, and profit 
by my future. I will borrow language in which to speak my 
passion. There's nothing very original in borrowing, finan- 
cially speaking ; but to borrow another man's ideas by which 
to make love, I call original. And, as luck would have it, I 
have an excellent opportunity to test my new idea. Loun- 
ging in the sanctum of my friend Quill, the editor of " The 
Postscript," a few days ago, he called my attention to an ad- 
vertisement which had just been presented for insertion. It 
ran thus : " Wanted, a reader, — a gentleman who has 
studied poetic and dramatic compositions with a view to de- 
livery, who has a good voice, and who would be willing to 
give one evening a week to the entertaining of an invalid. 
Address, with references, 'Stella,' Postscript Office." I rec- 
ognized the handwriting as that of the lady to whom I had 
been paying attentions, the signature as the non de plume 
under which she had written several poetic contributions for 
the press ; and 1 had no trouble in guessing the meaning of 
the advertisement, knowing she has an invalid uncle. 
" There is a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken at the 
flood, leads on to fortune." I felt that it was high tide with 
me, and boldly launched my canoe ; answered the advertise- 
ment under the assumed name of " Festus," and waited for 
a reply. It came : " Stella is satisfied with the references of 
Festus. and will give him an opportunity to test his ability 
as a reader Tuesday evening next," 1 etc. You will naturally 
conclude that my heart bounded with rapture on receiving 
this favorable answer. It did nothing of the sort : on the 
contrary, the rebound almost took away my breath. I began 
to shiver and shake, and felt inclined to retreat. But " love 
conquers all things." I determined to persevere; and here 
I am, by appointment, to test the practicability of my origi- 
nal idea. The lady is a fine reader. I am well acquainted 
with her favorite authors ; and, if I can but interest her in 
this novel suit, may at least pass a pleasant evening if I am 
not unspeakably happy. I was told to wait for Stella. 
(Takes a book from table, and sits l. of table, with his bach to R.) 
Shakspeare, ah ! Let me draw a little courage from the pe- 
rusal of this. (Enter Stella, r., in evening costume, with 
flowers in her hair.) 

1 Or the evening of the performance. 



112 THE READING-CLUB. 

Stella. My maid said Festus was in this room. Ah ! 
there he is, deep in a book : that's so like these literary gen- 
try ! No sooner are their roving e} 7 es fastened on a book than 
it is seized Avith the avidity with which a starving man 
grasps a loaf of bread. He seems happy : I will not disturb 
him. {Sits on tete-a-tete.) What a strange idea ! Here am 
I to pass the evening listening to the voice of one whom I 
never saw before. This is one of my uncle's whims : he 
fears I am working too hard to entertain him with readings 
from his favorite authors, and so determines to employ a 
reader to relieve me. Dear uncle, with all his pain and suf- 
fering he has a sharp eye : he notices my want of spirit, and 
thinks it is caused by weariness. He little knows that the 
true cause is that stupid lover of mine, who sat here even- 
ing after evening as dumb as an oyster, until, out of spite, I 
started him off. What could have ailed the man ? Nothing 
could he say but "Yes, ma'am," " No, ma'am," " Fine even- 
ing," " Good-night." I never was so plagued in all my life, 
for I should have liked the fellow if he had only tried to 
make himself agreeable ; but he was as silent and stupid as 
— Festus here. (Festus rises, gesticulating with his hand, his 
eyes fastened on the book.) What can the man be about? 

Festus. {Reading.) "Is this a dagger which I see before 
me ? the handle towards my hand ? Come, let me clutch 
thee! I have thee not, and yet I see" — {Turns and sees 
Stella. Drops book, and runs behind chair very confused.) 

Stella. Good gracious ! you here again ? 

Festus. I beg your pardon. You are — Iain — 

Stella. I thought, sir, I was to have no more of your 
agreeable society. 

Festus. I beg your pardon, madam : you seem to be in 
error. I am Festus, — Festus. 

Stella. You Festus ? 

Festus. Oh, yes : I'm Festus ! I came here by appoint- 
ment. 

Stella. What do you mean, sir? I expected a gentleman 
here to read. 

Festus. Exactly ! Pray, are you the invalid ? 

Stella. Sir, you are insulting ! You will be kind enough 
to leave this room at once. I thought the last time you were 
here — 

Festus. Excuse me for interrupting; but you evidently 
mistake me for some other person. I never was in this 
house before. 



THE READING-CLUB. 113 

Stella. Is the man crazy ? Do you mean to say you did 
not make a proposal of marriage to me in this very room a 
week ago ? 

Festus. Madam, you surprise me. To the best of my 
knowledge and belief, I never saw you before. 

Stella. Was there ever such assurance ? Is not your 
name — 

Festus. Festus ; and yours Stella. Am I not right ? 

Stella. Sir, this is very provoking ; but, if you are Fes- 
tus, what is your object in calling here ? 

Festus. To entertain you. 

Stella. To entertain me ! With what, pray? Sitting on 
the edge of a chair, and twirling your thumbs ? 

Festus. (Aside.) That's a hard hit. (Aloud.) With 
readings, if you please. 

Stella. Readings! Pray, what do you read? Ovid's 
" Art of Love " ? 

Festus. Madam, I answered your advertisement, being 
desirous of securing the situation of reader to an invalid. 

Stella. You won't suit. 

Festus. You haven't heard me. 

Stella. No, but I've seen you; and your silence cannot be 
excelled by your reading. 

Festus. Will you hear me read ? 

Stella. No : you will not suit. 

Festus. Very well : then I claim the trial. Remember 
your promise, — " Stella is satisfied with the references of 
' Festus,' and will give him an opportunity to test his ability 
as a reader Tuesday evening," etc. 

Stella. Oh, very well ! If you insist upon making your- 
self ridiculous, proceed. (Sits in chair, R. of table, and turns 
her back on Festus.) 

Festus. But will you not listen to me? I cannot read to 
you while you sit in that position. 

Stella. I told you I did not wish to hear you read : you 
insist. Proceed : I am not interested. 

Festus. Oh, very well ! My first selection shall be from 
the writings of one well known to fame, — a lady whose 
compositions have electrified the world ; whose poetic effu- 
sions have lulled to sleep the cross and peevish infant, stilled 
the noisy nursery, and exerted an influence upon mankind of 
great and lasting power ; one whose works are memorable 
for their antiquity, — the gift of genius to the budding 



114 THE READING-CLUB. 

greatness of the nineteenth century. {Producing a booh 
from his pocket.) I will read from Mother Goose. 

Stella. (Starting up.) Mother Goose ! 

Festus. Yes : are you acquainted with the lady ? 

Stella. (Sarcastically.) 1 have heard of her. 

Festus. (Reads in very melodramatic style.) 

" 'We are three brethren out of Spain, 
Come to court your daughter Jane.' 
' My daughter Jane she is too young : 
She is not skilled in flattering tongue.' 
' Be she young, or be she old, 
'Tis for her gold she must be sold. 
So fare you well, my lady gay : 
We will return another day.' " 

How do you like that ? 

Stella. (Fiercely.) I don't like it. 

Festus. No ? Perhaps you prefer some other style of de- 
livery. (Reads with a drawl.) 

" ' We awe thwe bwethwen-aw out of Spain, 
Come to court-aw your dawtaw Jane-aw.' " 

Stella. Oh, do read something else ! 
Festus. Certainly. 

" Hi diddle diddle ! the cat and the fiddle ! 
The cow jumped over the moon " — 

Stella. (Jumps up.) Pray, sir, do you intend to read that 
nonsense the whole evening? 

Festus. Oh, no ! I think I can get through the book in 
about an hour. 

Stella. Sir, you have forced yourself here, an unwelcome 
visitor : you insist upon my hearing such nonsense as 
Mother- Goose melodies for an hour. Do you call that gen- 
tlemanly ? 

Festus. Madam, you advertised for a reader. I have 
applied, with your permission, for the situation. Under the 
circumstances, I naturally expected to have your attention 
during the reading of such selections as I should offer ; in- 
stead of which, you turn your back upon me, and very 
coolly bid me proceed. Do you call that ladylike ? 



THE READING-CLUB. 115 

Stella. Frankly, no. You have asked the trial : you shall 
have it. For an hour I will hear you ; and, though I strongly 
suspect the situation of reader is not the object of your visit, 
you shall have no reason to complain of my inattention. Is 
that satisfactory ? 

Festus. Pray go a step farther. You are said to have 
fine elocutionary powers. May I not hope to have the pleas- 
ure of hearing your voice ? Grant me your assistance, and 
my hour's trial may perhaps be made agreeable to both. 

Stella. Oh ! not quite certain of your ability, Mr. Festus? 

Festus. Not in the presence of so fine a reader. 

Stella. A compliment ! Well, I agree. 

Festus. Let me hear you read : that will give me courage 
to make the attempt myself. 

Stella. Oh, very well! Remembering your partiality for 
juvenile literature, you will pardon me if I read a very short 
but sweet poem. (Produces a printed handkerchief from her 
pocket.) 

Festus. Ah, a pocket edition ! 

Stella. (Reads from the handkerchief.) 

" "Who sat and watched my infant head 
• When sleeping on my cradle-bed, 

And tears of sweet affection shed ? 
My mother. 

When sleep forsook my open eye, 
Who was it sang sweet lullaby, 
And rocked me that I should not cry ? 
My mother. 

When pain and sickness made me cry, 
Who gazed upon my heavy eye, 
And wept for fear that I should die ? 
My mother." 

There, sir ! what do you say to that ? 

Festus. It's very sweet. But that child had too many 
mothers. Xow, I prefer Tom Hood's parody. (Reads u A 
Lay of Real Life,'" by Thomas Hood.) 

A LAY OF REAL LIFE. 

Who ruined me ere I was born, 
Sold every acre, grass or corn, 
And left the next heir all forlorn? 

My Grandfather. 



116 THE READING-CLUB. 

Who said my mother was no nurse, 
And physicked me, and made me worse, 
Till infancy became a curse ? 



Who left me in my seventh year, 
A comfort to my mother dear, 
And Mr. Pope the overseer ? 



My Grandmother. 



My Father. 



Who let me starve to buy her gin, 

Till all my bones came through my skin, 

Then called me " ugly little sin " ? 

My Mother. 

Who said my mother was a Turk, 
And took me home, and made me work, 
But managed half my meals to shirk ? 

My Aunt. 

Who " of all earthly things " would boast, 
"He hated others' brats the most," 
And therefore made me feel my post ? 

My Uncle. 

Who got in scrapes, an endless score, 
And always laid them at my door, 
Till many a bitter bang I bore ? 

My Cousin. 

Who took me home when mother died, 

Again with father to reside, 

Black shoes, clean knives, run far and wide ? 

My Stepmother. 

Who marred my stealthy urchin joys, 

And, when I played, cried " What a noise ! " — 

Girls always hector over boys ? — 

My Sister. 

Who used to share in what was mine, 

Or took it all, did he incline, 

'Cause I was eight, and he was nine ? 

My Brother. 

Who stroked my head, and said, " Good lad," 
And gave me sixpence, " all he had ; " 
But at the stall the coin was bad ? 

My Godfather. 



THE READING-CLUB. 117 



Who, gratis, shared my social glass, 
But, when misfortune came to pass, 
Referred me to the pump ? Alas ! 



My Friend. 



Through all this weary world, in brief, 
Who ever sympathized with grief, 
Or shared my joy, my sole relief ? 

Myself. 

Stella. That is very amusing ; but, Mr. Festus, if this is 
the extent of your elocutionary acquirements — 

Festus. Oh, I beg your pardon ! By no means ! With 
your permission, I will read something a little more sombre, 
— Edgar Poe's "Raven." 

Stella. That is certainly more sombre. Proceed. 

Reading. " The Raven,'" by Edgar A. Poe. Festus. 

Stella. Excellent ! Mr. Festus, you are certainly a good 
reader. But this seems to affect you. 

Festus. It does, it does ; for I, too, have lost one — 

Stella. A raven ? 

Festus. Pshaw ! Come, madam, I believe you are to read 
now, and I to listen. 

Stella. Certainly. I will read, with your permission, 
Whittier's " Maud Muller." 

Festus. I should be delighted to hear it. 

Reading. " Maud Muller." Stella. 

Festus. Beautiful, beautiful ! Madam, this, too, affects 
me. 

Stella. How ? 

Festus. When I think " it might have been." 

Stella. Then I wouldn't think of it, if I were you. What 
shall we have now ? 

Festus. Suppose we read together. 

Stella. Together ? 

Festus. Yes, a scene from some play. There's " The 
Marble Heart." 

Stella. Oh, there's nothing in that but love-scenes ! 

Festus. It's a favorite play with me ; and I have been 
thinking, while you were reading, that the character of 
" Marco " is one in which you might excel. 



118 THE READING-CLUB. 

Stella. Indeed ! I have studied the character. 

Festus. (Aside.) I should think so. (Aloud.) Let us 
attempt a scene. Come, you shall have your choice. 

Stella. Thank you. Then I will choose "the rejection 
scene." 

Festus. (Aside.) Of course you would ! (Aloud.) Very 
well. 

Stella. Do you know, Mr. Festus, I think there is some- 
thing very odd in your attempting a love-scene ? 

Festus. Do you ? I have attempted them, and with suc- 
cess too. 

Stella. Ah ! I remember there was one attempted here. 

Festus. Indeed ! 

Stella. Yes ; but the gentleman's name was not Festus. 

Festus. Shall we try the scene ? 

Stella. You must prompt me if I fail. 

Festus. Fail ! " In the bright lexicon of youth, there's 
no such word as fail." 

Stella. Ah ! but, in attempts at acting, there are many 
failures. 

Festus. True; but yours will not be one of them. 

Stella. (Aside.) Another compliment! I begin to like 
the fellow. 

Festus. Now, then, the scene ! (Stella takes a bouquet 
from the table, sits on tete-a-tete, r.) 

Scene from " The Marble Heart." Arranged for this piece. Published in 
No. 15 Beading-Club. 



PART II. 

Scene. — Same as before. Enter Festus, c. 

Festus. It is astonishing how much a little borrowed plu- 
mage becomes a bashful man. The ice once broken by the 
inspiring thoughts and words of the love-sick "Raphael," I 
feel now almost equal to the composition and delivery of an 
energetic and passionate appeal that shall carry the heart of 
the lady by storm; but then, having once been refused, I 
dread a second attempt. " A burnt child fears the fire ; " 
and a singed lover trembles before the blazing eyes of the 



THE READING-CLUB. 119 

object of his adoration. I have yet a short time before the 
expiration of my hour of trial, and the character of " Sir 
Thomas Clifford " from which to borrow courage. (Enter 
Stella, c.) 

Stella. Well, mysterious " Festus," what new fancy is 
agitating your fertile brain ? 

Festus. Madam, to tell you the truth, I was — thinking 
— of you. 

Stella. Of me, or of your future salary ? 

Festus. Both. 

Stella. What of me? 

Festus. {Very awkward and confused.') That I think — I 
think — that you — you — are — are — 

Stella. Well, what am I ? 

Festus. {Abruptly.) A very fine reader. 

Stella. Oh ! is that all ? 

Festus. All worth mentioning. 

Stella. Sir ! 

Festus. That is all I am at liberty to mention. 

Stella. What if I should grant you liberty to say more ? 

Festus. Oh ! then — then I should say — I should say — 

Stella. Well, what would you say ? 

Festus. It's your turn to read. 

Stella. (Aside.) Stupid! (Aloud.) Well, sir, what shall 
I read? 

Festus. Oh ! oblige me by making your own selection. 

Stella. There's " The Bells," by Poe. Do you like that ? 

Festus. Oh, exceedingly! 

Stella. But I don't know how to read it : it's very difficult. 

Festus. Perhaps I can assist you. (Aside.) I'll provoke 
her a bit ; see if she has a temper. 

Stella. Well, you are very kind. (Aside.) I'll see if I 
can make him talk. 

Festus. Well, then, you take the book, and read. (Hands 
her copy of Poe.) When I think you need correcting, I will 
speak. 

Stella. Very well. (They sit, c. Stella reads in a very 
tragic tone, emphasizing the words in Italics.) 

" Hear the sledges with the bells, 

Silver bells! " , 

Festus. Oh, stop, stop, stop ! Dear me ! that's not the 
way to read. There's no silver in your bells. Listen : — 



120 THE READING-CLUB. 

" Hear the sledges with the bells, 
Sil-vei bells ! " 

Very silvery, don't you see ? 

Stella. Oh, yes ! excuse me. ( Reads in a very silly tone.) 

" Hear the sledges with the bells, 
Sil ver bells ! " 

Festus. Oh, no, no ! that's too silly. 

Stella. Sir ! 

Festus. I mean, there's too much of the sil in silver. 
(Repeats 7iis reading. She imitates it.) 

Festus. Ah ! that's better. Thank you : you are charm- 
ing. (She looks at him.) That is, a charming reader. Gft 
on. 

Stella. (Reads.) 

" What a world of merriment their melody foretells ! 
How they tinkle " — 

Festus. (Interrupting.) I beg your pardon : "twinkle." 

Stella. No, sir: "tinkle." 

Festus. But I am sure it is "twinkle." 

Stella. Can't I believe my own eyes ? 

Festus. Not unless they "twinkle." 

Stella. Look for yourself. (Shows him the book.) 

Festus. My stars! it is "tinkle." I beg your pardon. 
Go on. 

Stella. " How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, 

In the icy air " — 

Festus. No, no : frosty, — frosty air. 

Stella. No, sir : it's icy air. 

Festus. You are mistaken: "frosty." 

Stella. Am I ? Look for yourself. 

Festus. Well, I declare ! It is, I see, icy. I beg your par- 
don. Go on. 

Stella. I see, I see. You are bent on interrupting me. 
What do you mean, sir? 

Festus. What can you expect, if you don't know how to 
read? 

Stella. Sir, this is provoking. I don't know how to read ? 

Festus. Not " The Bells," I know. 

Stella. Oh 1 do you ? Well, sir, I know you are no gen- 



THE READING-CLUB. 121 

tleman ; and I know, if you want " The Bells " read (starts 
up, and throws book at him), read it yourself. 

Festus. Madam, what am I to understand by this ? 

Stella. That your presence is no longer agreeable to me. 

Festus. Oh, very well, very well ! I understand you wish 
me to go. (Stella stands, r., with her back to him.) You 
wish me to go. I will intrude no longer. (Very loud.) 
Since you — wish — me — to — go — (Aside.) Confound 
it, I believe she does ! (Aloud.) Very well, madam, very 
well. Good-evening. (Exit, l.) 

Stella. He'll be back in three minutes. (Enter Festus, 

Festus. I forgot my hat. You'll excuse me if I take my 
— (Aside.) Confound it, she won't speak ! (Stands irreso- 
lute a moment, and then approaches her.) Madam, — Stella, — 
I was wrong. You can read " The Bells " divinely. I hear 
them ringing in my ears now. I beg your pardon. Read 
" The Bells " in any manner you please : I shall be delighted 
to listen. 

Stella. Oh, very well! Since you have returned, I will 
read. 

Reading. " The Bells," Poe. Stella. 

Festus. Splendid, splendid ! 

Stella. Now, sir, I shall be happy to listen to you once 
more. 

Festus. Your "Bells " have stirred the fires of patriotism 
within my heart ; and I will give you, as my selection, 
"Sheridan's Ride." 

Reading. " Sheridan's Ride," Reid. Festus. 

Stella. Excellent ! Mr. Festus, you are a very spirited 
rider, — I mean reader. Now, suppose, for variety, we have 
another scene. 

Festus. With all my heart. What shall it be? 

Stella. Oh ! you select. Pray, Mr. Festus, did you have 
any design in selecting the scene from " The Marble Heart " ? 

Festus. Well, I like that. You selected it yourself. 

Stella. But the play was your selection ; and you were 
very perfect in the part of "Raphael." 

Festus. Well, I selected what I thought I should most 
excel in. 



122 THE READING-CLUB. 

Stella. You excel in love-making ! That's good. But I 
must say, you act it well. 

Festus. Yes — that is — I think that circumstances — oc- 
curring — which would make — circumstances — perfectly 
— that is, I mean to say that — circumstances — indeed — 
what were you saying V 

Stella. Ha, ha, ha ! O mighty Festus ! you've lost your 
place ; but, as you have a partiality for love-scenes, what is 
your next? 

Festus. What say you to a scene from " The Hunchback " ? 
" The secretary of my lord '' ? You know the scene, — 
"Julia" and "Sir Thomas Clifford." 

Stella. Oh, yes! I am familiar with it; but I think, as 
an applicant for a situation, you are making me perform 
more than my share of work. 

Festus. Oh! if you object — 

Stella. Oh ! but I don't object. Proceed. (Sits, l. of 
table. Festus exits, l.) 



SCENE FROM "THE HUNCHBACK." 

(Arranged for this piece.) 

Julia, Stella. Sir Thomas Clifford, Festus. 

Jul. (Alone.) A wedded bride? 
Is it, a dream ? 
Oil, would it were a dream ! 

How would 1 bless the sun that waked me from it ! 
I am wrecked 

By mine own act ! What ! no escape ? no hope ? 
None ! I must e'en abide these hated nuptials ! 
Hated ! — ay, own it, and then curse thyself 
That mad'st the bane thou loathest for the love 
Thou bear'st to one who never can be thine ! 
Yes, love ! Deceive thyself no longer. False 
To say 'tis pity for his fall, — respect 
Engendered by a hollow world's disdain, 
Which hoots whom fickle fortune cheers no more ! 
'Tis none of these : 'tis love, and, if not love, 
Why, then, idolatry ! Ay, that's the name 
To speak the broadest, deepest, strongest passion 
That ever woman's heart was borne away by ! 
He comes ! Thoud'st play the lady, — play it now ! 

{Enter Clifford, l.) 
Speaks he not ? 
Or does he wait for orders to unfold 



THE READING-CLUB. 123 

His "business '? Stopped Ms business till I spoke, 

I'd hold my peace forever ! (Clifford kneels, presenting a letter.) 

Does he kneel ? 

A lady am I to my heart's content ! 

Could he unmake me that which claims his knee, 

I'd kneel to him, — I would, I would ! Your will? 

Clif. This letter from my lord. 

Jul. Oh, fate ! who sj)eaks ? 

Clif. The secretary of my lord. (Rises.) 

Jul. I breathe ! 
I could have sworn 'twas he ! 

( Makes an effort to look at him, but is unable.) 
So like the voice ! — 

I dare not look lest there the form should stand. 
How came he by that voice ? 'Tis Clifford's voice 
If ever Clifford spoke ! My fears come back. 
Clifford, the secretary of my lord ! 
Fortune hath freaks, but none so mad as that. 
It cannot be ! — it should not be ! A look, 

And all were set at rest. (Tries to look at him again, but cannot.) 
So strong my fears, 

Dread to confirm them takes away the power 
To try and end them. Come the worst, I'll look. 

(She tries again, and is again unequal to the task.) 
I'd sink before him if I met his eye ! 

Clif. Wilt please your ladyship to take the letter ? 

Jul. There, Clifford speaks again ! Not Clifford's breath 
Could more make Clifford's voice ; not Clifford's tongue 
And lips more frame it into Clifford's speech. 
A question, and 'tis over ! Know I you ? 

Clif. Reverse of fortune, lady, changes friends : 
It turns them into strangers. What I am 
I have not always been. 

Jul. Could I not name you ? 

Clif. If your disdain for one, perhaps too bold 
When hollow fortune called him favorite, 
Now by her fickleness perforce reduced 
To take an humble tone, would suffer you — 

Jul. I might ? 

Clif. You might. 

Jul. O Clifford ! is it you ? 

Clif. Your answer to my lord. (Gives the letter.) 

Jul. Your lord ! 

Clif. Wilt write it? 
Or, will it please vou send a verbal one ? 
I'll bear it faithfully. 

Jul. You'll bear it ? 

Clif. Madam, 
Your* pardon ; but my haste is somewhat urgent. 
My lord's impatient, and to use despatch 
Were his repeated orders. 

Jul. Orders? Well (takes letter), 



124 THE READING-CLUB. 

I'll read the letter, sir. 'Tis right you mind 
His lordship's orders. They are paramount. 
Nothing should supersede them. Stand beside them ! 
They merit all your care, and haA r e it ! Fit, 
Most fit, they should. Give me the letter, sir. 

Clif. You have it, madam. 

Jul. So ! How poor a thing 
I look ! so lost while he is all himself ! 
Have I no pride ? 

If he can freeze, 'tis time that I grow cold. 
I'll read the letter. (Opens it, and holds it as about to read it.) 
Mind his orders ! So ! 
Qiiickly he fits his habits to his fortunes ! 
He serves my lord with all his will ! His heart's 
In his vocation. So ! Is this the letter ? 
'Tis upside down, and here I'm poring on't ! 
Most fit I let him see me play the fool ! 
Shame ! Let me be myself"! (She sits a while at table, vacantly 

gazing on the letter, then looks at Clifford.) 
How plainly shows his humble suit ! 
It fits not him that wears it. I have wronged him ! 
He can't be happy — does not look it — is not ! 
That eye which reads the ground is argument 
Enough. He loves me. There I let him stand, 
And I am sitting ! (Rises, and points to a chair.) 
Pray you, take a chair. (He boics as acknowledging and declining 

the honor. She looks at him a while.) 
Clifford, why don't you speak to me ? ( Weeps.) 

Clif. I trust 
You're happy. 

Jul. Happy ? Very, very happy ! 
You see I weep I am so happy. Tears 
Are signs, you know, of naught but happiness. 
When first I saw you, little did I look 
To be so happy. Clifford ! 

Clif. Madam ? 

Jul. Madam ! 
I call thee Clifford, and thou call'st me madam ! 

Clif. Such the address my duty stints me to. 
Thou art the wife elect of a proud earl 
Whose humble secretary sole am I. 

Jul. Most right ! I had forgot ! I thank you, sir, 
For so reminding me, and give you joy 
That what, I see, had been a burthen to you 
Is fairty off your hands. 

Clif. A burthen to me ? 
Mean you yourself ? Are you that burthen, Julia ? 
Say that the sun's a burthen to the earth ! 
Say that the blood's a burthen to the heart ! 
Say health's a burthen, peace, contentment, joy, 
Fame, riches, honors, everything that man 
Desires, and gives the name of blessing to ! — 



THE READING-CLUB. 125 

E'en such a burthen Julia were to me 
Had fortune let rue wear her. 

Jul. (Aside.) On the brink 
Of what a precipice I'm standing ! Back, 
Back ! while the faculty remains to do't ! 
A minute longer, not the whirlpool's self 
More sure to suck thee down ! One effort ! (Sits.) There ! 

(Recovers her self-possession, takes up the letter, and reads.) 
To wed to-morrow night ! Wed whom ? A man 
Whom I can never love ! I should before 
Have thought of that. To-morrow night. This hour 
To-morrow, — how I tremble ! 
At what means 

Will not the desperate snatch ! What's honor's price ? 
Nor friends, nor lovers, — no, nor life itself ! 
Clifford, this moment leave me ! (Clifford retires up the stage 

out of her sight.) 
Is he gone ? 

Oh, docile lover ! Do his mistress' wish 
Tliat went against his own ! Do it so soon, 
Ere well 'twas uttered ! No good-by to her ! 
No word, no look ! 'Twas best that so he went. 
Alas the strait of her who owns that best 
Which last she'd wish were done ! What's left me now ? 
To weep, to weep ! (Leans her head upon her arm, ivhich 7'ests 
upon the table, her other arm hanging listless at her side. Clif- 
ford comes doton the stage, looks a moment at her, approaches 
her, and, kneelinq, takes her hand.) 

Clif. My Julia ! ' 

Jul. Here again ? 
Up, up ! By all thy hopes of heaven go hence ! 
To stay's perdition to me ! Look you, Clifford ! 
Were there a grave where thou art kneeling now, 
I'd walk into't and be inearthed alive 

Ere taint should touch my name ! Should some one come 
And see thee kneeling thus ! Let go my hand ! — 
Remember, Clifford, I'm a promised bride — 
And take thy arm away ! It has no right 
To clasp my waist ! Judge you so poorly of me 
As think I'll suffer this V " My honor, sir"! 

(She breaks from him, quitting her seat.) 
I'm glad you've forced me to respect myself : 
You'll find that I can do so. 

Clif. There was a time I held your hand unchid ; 
There was a time I might have clasped your waist : 
I had forgot that time was past and gone. 
I pray you, pardon me. 

Jul. (Softened.) I do so, Clifford. 

Clif. I shall no more offend. 

Jul. Make sure of that. 
No longer is it fit thou keep'st thy post 
In's lordship's household. Give it up ! A day, 



126 THE READING-CLUB. 

An hour, remain not in it. 

Clif. Wherefore ? 

Jxd. Live 
In the same house with me, and I another's ? 
Put miles, put leagues, between us ! The same land 
Should not contain us. 

Clifford, Clifford ! 

Rash was the act, so light that gave me up, 
That stung a woman's pride, and drove her mad, 
Till in her frenzy she destroyed her peace ! 
Oh, it was rashly done ! Had you reproved, 
Expostulated, had you reasoned with me, 
Tried to find out what was indeed my heart, 

1 would have shown it, you'd have seen it, all 
Had been as naught can ever be again. 

Clif. Lov'st thou me, Julia ? 

Jul. Dost thou ask me, Clifford? 

Clif. These nuptials may be shunned — 

Jul. With honor? 

Clif. Yes. 

Jul. Then take me ! Hold ! — hear me, and take me, then ! 
Let not thy passion be my counsellor ; 
Deal with me, Clifford, as my brother. Be 
The jealous guardian of my spotless name. 
Scan thou my cause as 'twere thy sister's. Let 
Thy scrutiny o'erlook no point of it, 
And turn it o'er not once, but many a time, 
That flaw, speck, yea, the shade of one, — a soil 
So slight not one out of a thousand eyes 
Could find it out, — may not escape thee ; then 
Say if these nuptials can be shunned with honor ! 

Clif. They can. 

Jul. Then take me, Clifford — 

Festus. Stop one moment. (Looks at watch.) Time's up. 

Stella. So soon ? 

Festus. The tone of your voice expresses regret. What 
is your decision ? 

Stella. My decision ? 

Festus. Upon my application for the situation of reader. 
Shall I have it ? 

Stella. Perhaps the terms will not suit. 

Festus. Madam, I am willing to serve you on any terms. 
Allow me to throw off the mask of " Festus," which of 
course you have seen through, and offer myself for a situation 
under the name of — 

Stella. Stop : you are not going to pronounce that name 
before all these good people ? 

Festus. Of course not. But what shall I do ? Stella, I 



TEE READING-CLUB. 127 

feel that " Raphael " and " Sir Thomas Clifford " have in- 
spired me to attempt love-making on my own account. 
Grant me the opportunity to make application for the situa- 
tion made vacant by my unceremonious exit the other night. 
Let " Festus" apply once more. 

Stella. What shall I say ? {To audience.) Would you? 
He seems to have found Ms tongue ; and who knows but 
what he may make an agreeable beau? I think he had 
better call again ; for to have a lover who can make love by 
borrowing, is, at least, — under the circumstances — under 
the circumstances — what is it, Festus ? 

Festus. Circumstances ? Why, under the circumstances, 
I should say it was "An Original Idea." 

George M. Baker. 

Note. The " Readings " and " Scenes " maybe varied to suit 
the taste of the performers. "The Garden Scene" in "Romeo 
and Juliet," scenes from "Ingornar," " The School for Scandal," 
etc., have been used with good effect. 



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